


Delivery Failed; Tap to Retry

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental DICK PIC!!!!, Board Games, Bucky Barnes Makes Questionable Choices, Hangover Breakfast, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Peggy Carter Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sharon Carter Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Works in Retail, Steve Rogers is Judging You, StuckyThorki Secret Santa 2016 Exchange, Tumblr Prompt, Unintentional nudity, and INTENTIONAL NUDITY, hangovers, silliness, stss2016, the author is a horrible person, until he isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: After a bad breakup, Bucky goes on a bender that results in bad choices. Too bad his fingers don’t type well through his phone contacts when he’s tipsy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comedicdrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama/gifts).



> This is my entry for the StuckyThorki Secret Santa Exchange on Tumblr, a gift for comedicdrama.

“Are you sure you’re fine to get home?” Natasha shouted into his ear as Bucky helped her up into the pedi-cab. They’d just escaped the flashing strobe lights and pounding bass of Gifted, the tacky bar on Graymalkin that hosted a special on different flavored vodka shots, but now the pedi-cab was strewn with cords of battery-operated flashing lights and pumping out Nicki Minaj from its speakers. Bucky was still nursing a considerable buzz and weaving on his feet. He grinned blearily at Nat, who was leaning back against Clint once Bucky peeled her off of himself. Her live-in boyfriend looked just as torn up as she did, but Bucky decided there wasn’t enough room in the cramped caddy for a third.

“C’mon, Bucko,” Clint wheedled, not caring that Bucky hated that moniker. Clint watched too many “Happy Days” reruns. “Let us give you a lift. I’ll buy you a waffle.”

Bucky made a face. “Where?”

“IHOP,” Clint pronounced, trying to wave him in.

“Uh-uh.”

“Almost ready to go?” their driver announced, grinding the pedals impatiently and waiting for Bucky to make up his mind. The guy looked rangy and skinny, with huge calf muscles, and he was wearing ridiculous spandex biking shorts even though it was cold enough for Bucky to see his own breath.

“I’m good, man,” he assured him, even though Nat was grabbing at him, tugging on his sleeve.

“C’mon, James!” she whined. “Hey, call me, at least? Send me a text to let me know you’re all right?” Her green eyes were a little glazed, but the expression in them brooked no shit. “You promise?”

“When I get in,” Bucky shrugged. 

“We good?” Clint asked, even though he didn’t look reassured, either, but Bucky gave him a thumbs-up, even accepting his little exploding fist-bump. He had to back his way up onto the curb as the pedi-cab driver fully mounted the bike and raised the kickstand with a sharp swat of his foot.

“We’re good.”

“G’night, sweetie!” Nat cried out, craning her neck back around to wave as they sped off. Her slender fingers peeled strands of her red hair out of her mouth, and he saw the ring of decimated lipstick around her full lips, a souvenir from a night full of syrupy shots and sweaty hours on the dance floor. Bucky felt the beginnings of a dull ache in his lower back that radiated all the way down to the soles of his feet. He felt limp and loose. It had been a good night.

Good enough, at least.

Bucky considered a cab, but he dug into his pocket and counted out the meager wad of ones; it wasn’t enough for a ride, and he didn’t feel like risking a trip to the ATM in the wee hours, in a dimly lit parking lot. He was _drunk_ ; he didn’t have a death wish.

The air was cold and bracing against his sweaty skin; all the vodka was leaking from his pores, making him smell like a bottle of Stoli. Bucky didn’t want the RA at the front desk to give him dirty looks when he went to sign in for the night, but it couldn’t be helped. He made it to the end of the block and pushed the button for the walk light at the curb, then caught a glance of himself in the window of a car that drove by him. His reflection was distorted, but he saw enough to know that his hair was wrecked and his flannel shirt was hopelessly rumpled. He looked like he just fell out of ~~someone else’s~~ bed. 

Wishful thinking.

He was going home to an empty bed, but unfortunately not an empty room. Parker was already home, more than likely buried in his microbiology book and texting his girlfriend back home. They were already one month into spring semester, and Pete and Mary Jane were still going strong. Bucky wasn’t bitter. He’d gotten stuck living in the dorms for another year after his off-campus living arrangement fell through. (Thanks, Brock.) Bucky had worse roommates than the bookish freshman; it only took Peter one semester to learn not to register for classes that started before noon. Bucky and Peter were both night owls, even if it was for different reasons.

Two weeks ago, Bucky would have been at Brock’s room, tangled in his musky-smelling sheets, muttering at him (Brock called it _whining_ ; Bucky begged to differ) to come to bed while he sat in the dark, sending off one last text. There was _always_ one last text. Brock would just give him _that look_ before chucking his phone onto his desk harder than he needed to.

“Do they have to text you that badly in the middle of the night?”

“Why? You watching my bedtime now, Jimmy?”

The echo of Brock’s sharp, gruff tone lingered in Bucky’s head, the angular jaw that he once found handsome jutting in that way that pronounced that Brock finished listening to him thirty seconds before they fucked. Bucky would roll toward the wall, jerking the covers up to his ears in a loud, impatient whip. Behind him, he still saw the faint glow of Brock’s phone screen, heard the thick fingertips hitting the letters in tiny, chirping clicks.

Tap. Tap-tap-click. Pause. Tap-tap-click. Click-chirp-tap. Pause. Click-click.

As though Bucky had never said anything. As though he wasn’t waiting. Mulling.

He heard Brock’s low, breathy huff, the crack of a smile. He lied to himself that it was all right for someone else to make him smile that, in the event of Bucky’s failure. Whoever it was had no problem with keeping Brock out of bed...

Bucky wasn’t confident in how vertical he looked to random passerby as he crossed the lawn. His bladder screeched to be emptied, and he prayed no one stopped him on his way upstairs. He nodded at the front desk RA, glad that it was just Reed this time. The thin brunet nodded and waved him inside without asking him where his badge was, even though he piggybacked his way inside behind one of the other residents.

“I wondered where you were,” Reed mentioned. “Nat and Clint asked me if I wanted them to bring me anything back from IHOP. They said you jumped ship.”

“Just wanted the walk.”

“Safety in numbers,” Reed reminded him, quoting the dorm bulletins strewn on every cork board in the residence hall.

“I know.”

“I know you know.” Reed made finger-guns at him. “Glad you’re back.”

“Gotta pee.”

“Right. G’night.”

“Night-night,” Bucky sang as he shoved his way through the swinging door and took the stairs two at a time, tripping slightly as he reached the landing. He nodded to a few of his neighbors where they lounged in the corridor, sipping from lidded commuter cups with the campus logo in their doorways, swathed in flannel and fleece pajama pants and slovenly concert tees. Sharon was already there, face scrubbed free of makeup, wearing her reading glasses and her hair in a scrunchied ponytail. Peggy was leaning against the wall, munching on a handful of Oreos and wearing a fuzzy pink robe over her sweats. Her lips held a remnant of her trademark red lip stain, telling Bucky that he had missed her while she was out earlier, too. He was sorry he had; Peggy was stunning when she put on her club gear and a full face of makeup. Bucky leaned more toward men, but he still appreciated a beautiful woman. Sharon and Peggy only bore a scant resemblance to one another, even though they were first cousins.

“How was it?” Sharon demanded as he hurried past.

“Packed.” He kept walking, pivoting to maintain polite eye contact. “Really gotta pee. Gimme a minute.”

“Fair enough.”

The boys’ shower room was blessedly empty, and Bucky darted into the nearest stall, jerked open his fly, and shimmied down his faded, shredded jeans. The relief of emptying his bladder in a loud, hissing stream hit him _hard_ ; it was almost euphoric. Bucky was glad no one could hear his loud groan echoing against the walls. In the back of his mind, Bucky made a tentative plan to ask Sharon for some Motrin and to grab a water bottle from the student lounge. Provided he could walk that far…

Bucky wasn’t impressed with his reflection once he made his way to the sink. His eyes had dark circles and they were glassy and tired. His hair was a wreck, too, the casual ponytail he’d pulled it into coming halfway out and hanging in lank, sweaty strings around his face. He sighed, scrubbing his damp palm over his faintly stubbled jaw. His buzz was already on its way out, leaving room for the recent hurts to bloom again in his chest.

_Damn it, Brock._

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Sharon murmured when he returned, clammy-faced and limp. She accepted his one-armed hug and supported him when he sagged against her, head bonking against her shoulder. “You smell like a distillery.” Her nose wrinkled at the brush of his damp hair against her cheek.

“That’s not very nice,” he scolded.

“Awwwww, muffin,” Peggy cooed. “You’re pitiful, you know that, right?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding into Sharon’s neck.

“Ugh. Go. Wash. Go to bed.”

“Have any Motrin?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sharon confirmed, rolling her eyes at her cousin, who chuckled and shook her head.

“Drink your water,” Peggy added.

“Like, a _gallon_.” Sharon keyed her way into their dorm room and Bucky followed her in, leaning against the doorway. The entire room was decorated in old high school paraphernalia, ribbon-wrapped and padded scrapbooking boards, and unframed art prints held on with Scotch tape. To their credit, it smelled better than his own dorm; Bucky needed to do laundry soon, before his clothes walked their way down to the downstairs machines and jumped inside. Sharon rummaged in her desk drawer and pulled out a small bottle of Motrin, unscrewing the lid and shaking out two, which she dropped into his palm.

“You look like hell. Please drink a lot of water,” she urged him. 

“And take a few of these,” Peggy advised, handing him some of the Oreos. 

“M’fine,” he insisted.

“No. This isn’t ‘fine,’” Sharon told him. “Here. Lay down.” She led him to her bed and gave him a little shove. “Shoes off.”

“I’m not gonna take up space here,” he argued. 

“Just for a little while. Eat. I’ll get you your water.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Bucky squinted hard. “Put down the octopus. I can’t tell.”

“Right. I’m getting you that water.” Sharon padded barefoot out the door while Peggy draped Bucky in a ridiculous pink blanket with purple fringes and printed with My Little Pony characters.

“Lie down,” she urged. “You look worn out, dear.”

Bucky exhaled and threw up one hand, letting it slap into his lap. “Just… sick of it.”

“Sick of what?”

“Bein’ alone. Feelin’ like m’alone when I’m with someone,” he told her. Peggy sank down beside him and wrapped an arm around him fondly, rubbing it through the blanket, and he sagged against her, too, since this was common enough between them now that she automatically made room for him whenever he joined her at the library or in the dining hall or on a crowded sofa at a house party.

“Was that how it was with Dick Face?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“So’m I.”

“Don’t take it personally when I call him Dick Face,” she reminded him. “That’s no reflection on you. Well, maybe it is, a little. We did tell you so.” Because Peggy and Sharon and Natasha certainly had. In spades.

“Thanks,” he muttered, somewhat put out. But she smelled good and she made an excellent prop.

“Lie down,” she told him again. “I don’t want you alone right now where we can’t keep an eye on you.”

“S’no big deal.”

“Ohhhh, yes it is.” She urged him down, and he didn’t put up much of a fight. Peggy bent down and untied his sneakers, tugging and yanking them off with some difficulty and giving his socked toes a tweak. Sharon came back with the water just as Peggy rearranged his pillows. Bucky’s eyes blearily wandered around the room as she turned off the overhead light and the clip-on lamp on Sharon’s desk.

“You can leave one on,” he told her.

“Sit back up and drink some of this,” Sharon told him. His head already felt heavy despite his arguments that he was headed back to his own room, but he lifted it and swallowed the pills with about half the bottle of water. He handed it back to Sharon, who capped it and set it on the tiny rolling dresser that only held two drawers’ worth of clothes. Peggy wasn’t done manhandling him yet; she reached down and pulled out his hair tie, untangling it from the damp strands, and Bucky groaned in bliss as she finger-combed his hair and rubbed his scalp. It was nice. Just for a minute, it was just nice to be spoiled and cared for a little, to have someone fuss over him like he mattered.

“The RAs might wonder where he is,” Sharon pointed out.

“He’ll be fine here for a while,” Peggy told her. 

Bucky was already dozing off, still distracted by all the pink girlishness of the room, but soothed by their voices, the fuzzy texture and light weight of the blanket around him, feeling the noise from the club recede from his thoughts. He closed his eyes and felt himself swamped in a thick, white blur as he drifted off.

*

Bucky didn’t know what woke him up, but when he opened his eyes, the room was completely dark. He glanced across the room and saw that Peggy had fallen asleep with a book laying across her chest. He rolled slightly to free himself from the now-stifling blanket, and he bumped against Sharon, who had stretched out beside him. Her arm was slung loosely around his waist, and she was tucked all the way under the covers, a protective barrier between them. He wondered how long they both stayed up; Bucky felt guilty that he’d no doubt kept them up watching him as he wallowed.

He wanted to give Sharon back her bed, though. It wasn’t the easiest thing sharing one of the tiny dorm cots. (Brock always kicked him out of the bed. Always.) Bucky eased himself out from under her arm and tucked the rest of the blanket around Sharon, scooped up the water bottle, and escaped back to his own room, closing their door with a gentle click. It had been nice to feel safe, but it was also cramped.

Bucky still felt off-balance and he was beginning to sweat. He unlocked his own door, struggling for a minute with his keys, wondering why it was so hard to actually fit it into the door… he missed the slot four times before he managed it, and he was grateful that Sam was already asleep and dead to the world. Bucky tripped over a pair of his own shoes, but managed not to wake his roomie. Bucky shed his clothes in a trail on his way to his cot, and his overheated skin thanked him. He took his phone to bed with him and briefly turned it on, hoping the glare wouldn’t wake Pete. But Pete was sawing logs, covers pulled halfway over his head, features slack and still cute (even though he would never tell him that). Bucky noticed a message from Nat, checking in on him. She’d sent him a photo of her plate of strawberry pancakes with little emojis, telling him _You missed out._ There was another shot of her and Clint grinning at him, then one of her kissing his cheek and him making a disgusted look in response. Typical.

He kept scrolling and saw one from Peter. _Bring home some Doritos._ Too bad he never saw that one earlier; he could make it up to Peter tomorrow… or in a few hours.

As he was getting ready to turn off his phone, he received another text from Nat.

_Get home okay?_

_Yup. ‘Nighty-night._

It was good enough. Bucky turned it off again, but his phone buzzed in his hand again. 

_We saw Brock._

Bucky huffed.

Nat wasn’t done. _He was with someone. Looked pretty cozy._

Of course he did. _Asshole_.

Why wouldn’t he be? Brock wasn’t the one whose heart had been torn out, was he? Just full of the same excuses and it’s-not-you-it’s me’s, lies, finger-pointing, deflection and bullshit. Bucky had resented him when he backed out of their lease agreement for the apartment that they had been planning to share. They broke up a few weeks later, and Bucky was living in the dorms again, licking his wounds.

He was tired. Nat didn’t tell him this to be cruel, so much as to remind him that he was better off.

He went back to Nat’s messages. _You missed out._

The words burned themselves into his eyeballs. He kept mulling them as he skimmed back through his older messages, seeing the last one Brock had sent. _We need to talk._ It hadn’t gone well.

Bucky’s face burned, anger perking in his veins. He glanced over at Pete, who had flipped over so that he was facing the wall, and his breathing settled into even patterns that still sounded like he was out. 

Bucky never made good decisions when he was mad. Or drunk. 

Bucky fiddled with his phone, thumbing his way into his camera app, hitting the selfie button. He turned on the flash and reached down, shimmying his hips up to pull down his boxers. 

Bucky reached down and teased himself a little, jerking his cool, limp flesh until it started to twitch and swell in his palm. He imagined Brock, how his face looked when he was teasing Bucky, tempting him with the offer to go down on him but making him wait for it, making him beg. It felt good to touch himself now, but getting off wasn’t his goal (yet). Bucky wasn’t the only one missing out…

He kept tugging and stroking at it, feeling it swell and stiffen, and he toyed with the tumescent head, milking it until a tiny, gleaming drop welled up in the tip, inviting. Telling.

There. That would do it.

Bucky bit his lip as he aimed the camera at himself, watching his dick loom into view in the tiny phone screen. He had to fiddle with the angle a little and work fast, because he _did not want_ to wake up Pete. There. Right there. That was nice. He snapped the shot, glanced at it, then made two more attempts. Peter sounded like he was about to turn over again, and at the sound of the covers rustling, Bucky scrambled under the covers, tugging himself back into his shorts.

Close call. Bucky guiltily stared back into his screen and pulled up the photo menu. There. The last one. He left it open and hit the little share button with the up arrow on it.

That was his first mistake.

Bucky dialed Brock’s number manually in the “To” field and waited for the photo to come up. He grunted under his breath. “Send,” he murmured. “You missed out, asshole.”

The status bar inched across the screen, then announced that the photo had been sent. There.

Peter moaned and tossed, and Bucky clicked off his phone quickly. He crammed it under his pillow and collapsed into it. No sense in poking the bear.

He grinned in the dark, satisfied that he got his message across when he heard the low buzz of a new text received. He could look at it when he woke up. Bucky still felt like the room was spinning when he drifted off again.

He never heard the hail of incoming texts buzzing from under his pillow...

*

His tongue tasted like he licked up a gallon of Elmer’s glue. The sunlight screamed at him, burning holes in his eyeballs. He woke up to the harsh flop of his shirt hitting him in the face and Peter looming over him, giving him an asshole’s smirk.

“Pick up your clothes, lazy bastard,” he nagged. “You left a whole trail of ‘em from here to there.”

“Too… early.”

“No. It’s not. It’s noon.”

Pete laughed at Bucky’s squint. “You look like my cat when you make that face.”

“It’s noon.” Bucky pronounced.

“Pretty much.”

“ _Noon._ ” Bucky scrambled upright, whipping the covers off of himself and planting his feet on the tweedy track carpeting. He rubbed his eyes and rubbed a crick in his neck.

“Dude. Oh, God, I’m never gonna unsee that. Tuck yourself in. _Tuck that thing in._ ” 

“What?” Bucky glanced down and saw that his dick was peeping up at him through the open flap of his boxers, and he immediately grabbed his pillow and clapped it over his lap. 

“Pajama pants will be the best investment you ever made if you just go out and buy some today. _Right now,_ Bucky.” Bucky glared up at him blearily, yawning as he noticed his phone in bed next to him, almost lost amidst the blankets. He picked it up and powered on the screen. Peter’s smile faltered as his roommate frowned.

“What’s up? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just… uh...okay…”

“Whatsamatter?”

“Got a whole bunch of texts from a number I don’t recognize.”

“It’s not in your contacts?”

“Uh-uh.”

It looked familiar, but it wasn’t… wait.

_Wait._

He opened up the lock screen and clicked on the unread message string. Ten new messages, each one convincing Bucky that he’s committed a major faux pas somewhere along the way.

_Dude!_

_Who is this?_

_Did you just send me a dick pic??!?_

Bucky took strange comfort in the fact that the recipient used good punctuation and caps. It was just a crying shame that he was _royally, justifiably pissed_ at Bucky. His face burned with instant shame and his stomach dipped as he realized that his little post-breakup slap at Brock resulted in a wrong number and the utter harassment of a total stranger.

_I don’t know who you are, but seriously?_

_I’m sorry, buddy, but this isn’t what I’m into. You just text people pictures of your penis???_

_That might work on Grindr, but not with me._

_Was this a joke?_

“Geez. Buck, you look a little green around the gills. You okay?”

“Think m’gonna be sick…”

Peter automatically kicked the wastebasket at him and made a hasty retreat. “Right. That being said, I’m going to class.” Pete was a decent roommate, and Bucky wouldn’t blame him for deserting him at the likelihood of vomit. He was out of the room like a shot, and Bucky hissed in pain at the slam of the door.

Because Bucky was a masochist, he read the rest of the message string.

_This isn’t how you get a guy’s attention. Just so you know, I AM A GUY._

_Hope you didn’t think I was a girl you were trying to impress. If so, I might have to track you down and kick your ass…_

Bucky smothered a bitter laugh. “Not even, pal,” he muttered as he thumbed his way down the screen to read the last dialogue balloon.

_Your text woke me out of a sound sleep. I have a seven o’clock class. Jerk. Hope you’re happy._

Oh, now Bucky felt just _wonderful_.

And he’d slept through his first two classes of the day. On his last lecture before mid-terms were due. Oh, joy…

He scrolled back up, checking the contact information and his original message, and there it was. Bucky’s junk, standing up at attention, making him look like some faceless, thirsty, attention-hungry pervert. But he looked at the phone number again. It looked at first glance like Brock’s, but the last two digits were different. He wondered why he hadn’t just typed Brock’s name in, instead, to autofill the number.

“I’m an idiot,” Bucky sighed.

*

Bucky went to the library to log in to his class’s portal, and he saw the reading assignment on the syllabus, then dashed off an email to see if he could still turn in his study questions (Bucky seriously doubted it.). While he was there, he reviewed a microfiche to research his history paper and worked on his physics homework. His eyes looked like a raccoon’s, and he made half an effort with sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled down low. Despite the Motrin from the night before, Bucky still felt like ten pounds of crap in a five-pound sack. There was a low-grade throbbing in his temples, the sun was still too bright, and he had a bad case of the booze sweats making his flesh feel clammy. Even in the library, the sounds around him were too loud and sharp. He was that close to killing the guy at the copier scanning pages from a three-inch thick reference like his life depended on it.

He felt a poke at his left shoulder, turned in that direction, then heard Nat’s voice at his right (because she loved the oldest tricks in the book). “Hey, stranger. We missed you at breakfast.”

“First breakfast, or second breakfast?”

“Take your pick. Glad you made it home last night. I was worried when you didn’t come with us.” She gave him her best “I’m judging you” pout and sat across from him, taking her organic chemistry book out of her pack.

“Probably should have gone,” Bucky muttered. “Think I would’ve gotten in less trouble hanging with you two.”

“Eh. Wouldn’t have gotten arrested, at any rate. Clint was on his best behavior for a change.” The skinnydipping incident was a favorite topic to revisit on their weekly board game nights. Bucky sighed and scrubbed his face with his palm.

“Yeah, well…”

“What? What’s wrong?” The librarian passed by and shushed them with a hiss. Nat waited for her to wander out of earshot, then whispered low, “What’d you do, Barnes?”

“Ya don’t wanna know.”

“Well, I do _now,_ genius. Of _course._ Spill.”

“I might’ve drunk-dialed Brock.”

“Oh, Bucky, no,” she scolded, making a face. “Please tell me you didn’t call him?”

“No.”

“Thank God.”

“It’s kinda worse than that.”

Her green eyes widened. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I might have sent him an angry dick pic.”

Nat clapped her hand over her mouth, doubling over and muffling what would have been a violent howl of laughter. Bucky scooched down in his seat, hoping to God that no one was watching the two of them. Copier Guy raised his brow from the corner, then went back to flipping through the Post-It noted pages and ruining the spine of the book by laying it on the platen.

“An angry dick pic?” she snickered under her breath. Her cheeks were red from the effort not to guffaw outright at his expense. Nat _loved_ laughter at Bucky’s expense. (At _anyone’s_ expense, if he was being honest.) “Was your dick angry at Brock?”

“Why are we friends, again?” he whispered back.

“Oh, c’mon. Sorry. I’m sorry.” Nat cracked open her book and found her yellow highlighter. “What happened after that?”

Bucky steeled himself, ducking his head and hiding beneath the bill of his hat.

“What?” she pressed.

“Wrong number,” Bucky mumbled.

“Come again?”

“I fucked up his number,” Bucky confessed, cringing even as he acknowledged it.

“ _Holy shit._ ”

“Yeah. That happened.”

“ _Bucky._ ”

Nat was aghast.

The librarian was back. “If I have to warn you two again, you’re out of here for the rest of the day.”

“I’m so sorry.” Nat tucked her book and marker back into her pack. Then she rounded the table and bodily tugged Bucky out of his seat, with surprisingly little difficulty despite their height difference; Nat came up to his ear and didn’t weigh more than a buck and a dime. Bucky marked her manhandling of him up to this hangover, out of pride.

Once they were outside, she was bursting. “You mis-dialed a dick pic???”

“My fingers didn’t work.”

“Well, yeah, no _shit_. Bucky. What were you even doing on your phone in your condition?”

“Uh, I was letting you and Clint know I was all right? While you were sending me photos of your pancakes?”

“Oh. Yeah. There was that. Still, though… Bucky. A dick pic? That’s not like you.”

“I know,” he whined. “I was just… pissed, I guess.”

“Pissed and piss-drunk,” she elaborated. “Wow. So you sent someone else a dick pic meant for your ex.”

“Yeah. It didn’t pan out well.” They stopped at a Dutch Bros coffee cart and ordered a couple of 911’s. Bucky still needed it to get through physics. “I woke up to the lecture of a lifetime on my phone.” Bucky made a face. 

Nat held out her hand. “Gimme.” She had called friends of his on his behalf from his phone before, for reasons. Nat already knew his passcode, and she opened up his messages. “You need to clean some of these out. Oh, cool, there’s me and Clint…”

“Focus,” Bucky snapped as he paid for their drinks with a couple of crumpled fives.

“Grouch. Ooh, here it is…” Nat’s eyes grew into saucers and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God. Wow. _Bucky._ ”

“Dick pic,” Bucky reminded her.

“S’not bad,” she murmured. “But yeah,” she said, remembering herself (and Clint) “that’s not positive feedback, there, bud. Wow.”

“I know that.” Bucky muttered into his coffee as he took a sip. 

“Grindr. Ouch. Low blow.”

“Yeah, that… could’ve done without seeing that.”

“Please tell me you’re not on Grindr.”

“I have standards.”

“Okay. We’re good, then. But, Bucky...geez. How did you manage to misdial?”

“Thought I had Brock’s number memorized. But it’s been a while since I manually dialed it.”

“That’s your subconscious trying to keep you away from him. You’re already blocking him out a teeny bit at a time. Keep kicking dirt over that shit, Bucky, and it won’t stink after a while.” Nat could be wise (and brutal). “To your credit, Brock was an idiot.”

“Pffft… to my credit?”

“He gave up a _nice_ dick.”

She dodged his half-hearted kick, snickering at him as they headed across the campus to the physical science building.

*

“Do you have this in a size small? Are there anymore in the back?” A petite girl with ombre two-tone hair that hung down to her shoulders and silver ear gages held up a shirt marked “clearance” with an orange tag. Steve sighed.

“Uh-uh. We’re liquidating those. All of them are already stocked out here in that style. Sorry.”

“Well, can you just _check?_ ”

Steve turned away from her and threw “I’ll be right back” over his shoulder, crossing his eyes at Sam, who was leaning against his counter in front of the cash register. Steve regretted more than ever not snagging the job at the campus gym’s membership desk or a spot in the cafeteria. Retail _sucked_ so hard. Sam smirked at him, shrugging. At least he could commiserate with his roommate on the job, and his shift was over in half an hour.

Steve went through the shelves in the back store room, looking through boxes of unsorted merchandise. He rifled briefly through stacks of folded shirts and sweatpants, trying to find any glimpse of white fleece, to no avail. Like he said, what she saw was what she got.

Steve emerged from the store room and informed her “Sorry, miss. That’s the last of that shirt.”

“I already picked out another one. Thanks.” She gave him a tight little smile, and Steve just nodded as he turned back to Sam, who just shook his head. Steve made little shooting fingers at his own temple. It was his own fault for taking an extra shift at the store when Peggy called out sick. Steve had a canvas due for his Intermediate Painting class and he was already stressing about finishing it on time. Oils were a forgiving medium, but they weren’t kind on his schedule. Steve lived on a pauper’s budget and needed work study to keep himself in ramen and art supplies. 

Sam rang up Steve’s customer and gave her a charming smile. “Anything else Steve or I can help you with?” he asked brightly.

“Are you guys going to get anymore of the white sweatshirts?”

“Not that particular design. They’re clearance. Sorry about that, pretty lady.”

Because Sam was all about letting people down easy.

“Thanks for your help, anyway,” she oozed back, smiling at Sam like she could eat him up. (Despite his lack of actual “help” in the transaction; Steve was _so done_.)

“That was cute,” Steve muttered, joining Sam at the counter and handing him a dollar that he fished out of his jeans pocket. He took one of the Kit-Kats on the candy display and unwrapped it. “M’going on my break,” he told him, voice garbled by the wafer once he stuffed half of it into his mouth.

“Can’t help it if they can’t resist all this.”

“You can help it a little.”

Sam held up his finger and thumb, with very little space in between, shrugging with his face. Because that was Sam.

Steve headed out into the food court of the student union building and bought himself an iced green tea infused with Red Bull; he was still dragging after waking up so early, thanks to Boner Guy. There was nothing Steve loved more than waking up to text alerts just before the ass crack of dawn and staring down the barrel of a dick pic from an unknown number. His vision was still blurred and unreliable in the dark, staring through the glare of his tiny Samsung screen.

“What…?” 

_You missed out._

Steve wasn’t sure what pissed him off the most about the entire affair:

That it was after three AM, and he had an early class.

That he’d been dreaming about driving in a sweet convertible with his freshman ex-girlfriend, America, before they’d both come out of the closet. It was still a pretty sweet dream, not one he wanted interrupted.

That he inherited the phone number when he changed phone services instead of keeping his old line, and everybody and their cousin knew the number’s previous owner. And spoke Spanish when they left him voice mail. (Steve wasn’t fluent, something he often regretted.)

That he missed a night out with Sam in favor of working on his canvas, and ended up wiping off the last coat of work with his turp rag _twice_ because he got his color values wrong.

Or,

That Steve was single, hadn’t been laid in who _knew_ how long, and this stranger was temptingly hung. And clearly taunting an ex. Steve didn’t know if he needed that kind of drama in his life, but the petty side of him, the part that admitted to a certain level of schadenfreude, would have loved to hear the story behind the dick pic. How smashed, or how pissed, or how _desperate_ did you have to be to text a random guy a shot of your junk?

How hard up was Steve that he even entertained this?

“That’s the most pissed off I’ve ever seen a guy sip his tea,” Clint announced as he sidled up to Steve on the wooden bench in the center corridor of the food court.

“M’ tired,” Steve informed him. “Woke up too early. Stayed up too late.”

“Bummer. Me too, but I had hangover breakfast with my girlfriend. I didn’t have class today until two.”

“Lucky you.”

“Still wish you had come out. We saw Wilson at the Howling Commando, out on the back lawn. They had a half-decent band.”

“Which one?”

“Cat’s Laughing. Lila’s singing with them again, and they had a cute blonde on keyboards and backup. She was pretty good.”

“Sucks that I missed it.”

“Nat made me drink about a gallon of water. Pissed like a race horse when I got up.” Which explained why he was disgustingly chipper. Steve felt like death warmed over, and he hadn’t even gone out. Where was the justice?

“Just as well. Some idiot woke me up in the wee hours, and it was a wrong number.”

“What’d they even say? Who were they trying to reach?”

“I have no clue. But I think it was a hook-up call.”

“Whoa. Seriously?” Clint’s tone was eager. 

“Clint. It was a dick pic.”

Clint whooped, and Steve choked on his sip of tea. Clint slapped him on the back, unapologetic and enjoying himself way too much. “Oh, my God. They sent _you_ a dick pic.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it. And I don’t think they heard you over in the student parking lot, Barton.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry…” But Clint broke out into giggles. “Classic!”

“Clint. Chill.” Steve made throat-cutting motions with his hand. 

“It wasn’t a bad thing, though, right?”

“Clint.”

“C’mon, Rogers.”

“Don’t try to rationalize this.”

“I’m not. Well… maybe I am. Just a little. You _like_ dick.”

“ _Clint._ ”

“Well, you _do_ ,” Clint accused. “S’been awhile since you last saw one.”

“Geez.” Steve was almost pouting. “Don’t hold back, Clint.”

“M’just sayin’.”

“Am I allowed to have standards?”

“Mm-mn-mnh,” Clint shrugged, giving him his best “I got nuthin’” look. “If you don’t want to actually have _sex_ , then I guess. Your call, Rogers. That’s all the action you’re getting lately, right in that little phone screen.” Then he grinned. “It’s like the Sahara desert in those pants!”

Steve squawked and tried to shove Clint off the bench, but Clint’s snickers were contagious. “You suck.”

“No. No. I’m with Nat.”

That earned him another shove.

The rest of Steve’s shift was uneventful. He practically sprinted to the time clock in the back as he fished his backpack out of his locker. Steve needed to book it back to his crappy little apartment - his and Sam’s crappy apartment, with its hideous, dookie brown track carpeting - and finish his canvas, or at least get to a good “stopping point” with his layers and clean up the background. Then he had to study for mid-terms and finish his take-home test for poli sci. He was running on too little energy to finish that much work. Dick Pic Guy hadn’t done him any favors.

...why was some niggling voice in the back of his mind entertaining the thought of him “doing Steve a favor?”

Could he help it if he was having a dry spell?

Steve keyed his way inside after he checked the mail, automatically throwing away about five credit card offers and the Kohl’s coupons that he never used before he even set the pile on the table. He rummaged through the freezer, noticing they needed to go food shopping again, more than the usual twenty-five dollar a week Safeway run to buy milk and bread. Steve moved some Bacardi mixers and a questionable looking pack of frozen burritos out of the way and found a less than impressive (possibly mummified) bag of beef raviolis. He found the remnants of a jar of sauce in the door of the fridge and plucked the dirty sauce pan out from under the mountain of dishes in the sink to wash it. While his water boiled, Steve emptied the trash and heated up the sauce. The apartment was echoingly empty except for the dripping faucet in the bathroom that their super still hadn’t fixed.

Steve ate his dinner in front of “How I Met Your Mother,” stocking feet propped on the coffee table, psyching himself up to finish his assignments. The middle of the term drained him every time, making him wonder if all the work was worth it, if it would pay off by the time he walked in his cap and gown. He left the lid over the pot to keep the remaining pasta from drying out, figuring Sam might eat some when he got home. Sam was a decent roommate ever since they lived in the dorms freshman year and both decided to live off campus and avoid the expense of the meal plan and survive on dollar store ramen and bagged cereal. Sometimes, Steve missed having neighbors down the corridor to eat meals with and hanging out in dorm rooms, sneaking the occasional beer or watching movies outside on the residents’ lawn on warm nights. But it was also nice not to have to share a bathroom with a whole wing of men, worry about RAs breathing down his neck or listen to someone’s music blasting in the middle of the day when he was trying to study. There was never any privacy. Nothing was really sacred. 

So. That left him broke with Sam, bickering over dishes and the electric bill and whose turn it was to go to Costco to buy the big pack of toilet paper. But it was enough. Steve was an adult. Steve could function (sort of). 

So he was a little on the single side. There were worse things.

He tidied up the dishes and faced the music, clicking off the set and trudging into his room, going through the motions of readying himself to tackle his canvas again. He plugged his phone into the speakers on his desk, clicked on his desk lamp, and unpacked his paint caddy, pulling out the mangled tubes that he’d begun to roll up from the bottom like flattened snails, milking them of the last, desperate, costly bits of pigment. Grumbacher oils weren’t cheap. Steve filled his palette and assembled his brushes, flats, filberts, rounds, the beat-up one with torn, splayed bristles that he used for scrumbling when he worked in acrylic or watercolor, detail liners and a fan brush that he babied meticulously. Steve topped off the coil jar of turpentine, thinning his blends with Liquin, working it in with his palette brush. There was something comforting about the chemical odors and the buttery texture of the paint, that faint grain of the canvas still visible beneath his layers, a reminder of how far he’d come from his simple line drawing. 

Then came the music; that committed him to starting his work just as much as not wanting to waste the paint once it was out of the tube. Sam was an early riser, but thankfully his room was at the opposite end of the hall, and Steve was able to work in low light even if his painting took him into the wee hours. 

Sam found him two hours later fingers smudged in turp and paint, rubbing out a kink in his neck. “Are you listening to Ariana Grande?” he accused.

“No.” But Steve hit the fast forward icon on his phone guiltily. Sam often accused Steve of having the musical tastes of a pubescent girl. To Steve’s credit, it was his “Drake” Pandora station, but he didn’t hit the thumbs-down button that often…

“Uh-huh.” Sam folded his arms and gave Steve a look of utter judgment before he let himself the rest of the way inside to peek over his shoulder at this work. “Wow.”

“It’s not finished.”

“Steve. That’s ready to hang up in a museum.”

“Tell that to my professor. I have to blend my outlines.”

“Stick figures. That’s as much as you’ll get outta me,” Sam emphasized, nodding to the canvas. “I can’t do that. That’s a gift, Rogers.”

“Feels like a curse. I have a poli sci take-home test.”

“Lucky you.”

“Left you some ravioli.”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Bless your soul.” Sam was the better cook between them, but when his day was grueling enough, generic Cap’n Crunch was good enough for dinner. He left Steve to his painting, visiting him periodically to entice him away to watch the fights. Steve begged off until it was time for Conan, heralding the only break he planned that night. 

*

“When’s our next game night?” Nat wondered as she fiddled with the huge, white dry erase calendar beside her mini-fridge.

“Whenever you say it is,” Clint told her.

“We’re overdue.”

“I dunno. Let me call Sam. See if he wants to bring his roommate this time.”

“Have I met him?” Nat’s brows drew together.

“I introduced you at Peggy’s birthday dinner that we had at the taco place. Big, beefy, looks like an Old Navy mannequin?”

“What was his name again?”

“Steve. Rogers. The Boy Scout.”

“Oh. Wait… ohhhhh. Yeah. I remember him, now. The big teddy bear.”

“Hey!” Clint looked affronted. “He is _not_.”

“You’re _my_ teddy bear,” she qualified, hooking her finger into the collar of his tee and kissing away his pout, lingering over it.

“Damn right.”

“So. Game Night.”

“It’s your call.”

“I’m inviting Sharon and Peggy. And Bucky.”

“That’s fine.” Clint helped himself to a bag of pretzel sticks Nat had in her big desk drawer. “Hey, how’s Buck doing?”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Just wondering if you heard from him since we went out.”

“I ran into him at the library. He looked rough,” she chuckled.

“That bad?”

“Ohhhhh, yeah.”

Clint gave her a dubious look. “What aren’t you telling me, Natalia?”

“What?” Her lips twisted up into a smug pink rosebud.

“What happened?”

“Nothing… remarkable.”

“What. Happened.” Clint bit his lip. “What’d he do? He did something, didn’t he?”

“No!” she insisted, turning away from him and acting like the dry erase pens were suddenly verrrrrry interesting.

“C’mon. You can tell me.”

“I know. But I _shouldn’t._ ”

Clint was bursting. “Babe. C’mon. I gotta know.” He held out his hands. “Please?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Aw, please?!” He got down on his knees, clinging to her kneecaps. “Please, pretty please! I’m dyin’ t’know, baby!”

“Clint. A little dignity… no groveling. What’ve I told you about groveling?”

“That you love when I do it?” Clint rose up on his knees and embraced her around her hips and kissed her stomach. She swatted him when it began to tickle.

“Promise you won’t say anything?”

“Swear to God.”

“Swear to _me_ ,” she suggested.

“I love you. So help me…”

“Get up, doofus.”

“Okay.” He bounced to his feet and folded his arms expectantly. “What’d Buck do?”

“He drunk-dialed Brock.”

“Ooh. Ouch.” Clint winced.

“Except that he didn’t.”

Clint’s sandy brows drew together. “Except he didn’t… you’ve lost me.”

“No, no. Think about it.”

“So…”

“Wrong number? Drunk-dialed?” She made an impatient “move it along” gesture with her hand to get him caught up. “Technically, a drunk text.”

“Okay. What’s the problem?”

“It had visual aids.”

“It had vis- wait. What?” It dawned in his blue eyes what she was saying, and delight slowly spread across his face. “No. Aw, no. Say it ain’t so.”

Nat nodded.

“Dick pic?!”

She nodded more emphatically, red hair swinging.

Clint doubled over and howled, biting his knuckle and stomping his feet.

“Will you settle down?” Nat wouldn’t admit to him that his carrying on was entertaining, or justified.

“Ah. Ahahaha. Whoo!” Clint was choking on his laughter, trying to stop and then breaking into fits of giggles. “Aw, baby. This is too much… ah, God. Okay, okay, I’m done. I’m good.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“No. Ah. This is just… it’s great.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I know who he dialed, that’s why.”

*

Peggy listened to her cousin with half an ear while she painted her nails in a shimmery shade of black cherry.

“Game Night’s on? What do you want us to bring?”

“Ooh. We haven’t done that for a while,” Peggy chimed in. “Tell Nat to make her seven-layer dip.”

“Make the dip,” Sharon echoed into her Samsung phone. “Uh-huh. We’ll bring chips and drinks if you want.”

“Who else is coming?” Peggy pressed.

“Well, here!” Sharon told her impatiently, shoving the phone up against Peggy’s cheek and forcing her to cradle it with her neck to avoid ruining her nails.

“Who else are you inviting?” she asked.

“Sam’s coming. He’s thinking about bringing his roommate this time. Usually he never comes,” Nat mentioned.

“Oh. That’s nice.” Then she huffed. “Wait. Right. Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“That’s the one.”

“He likes green enchiladas,” Peggy remarked. “Quiet. Awkward but well-meaning.”

“Yup.”

“I like Steve,” Peggy pronounced. “But will he show up?”

“Good luck dragging him out of the house. He’s always chained to his desk. He’s a hermit,” Sharon interjected sourly.

“I’ll see if Rob and Bobbie want to come, too. Scott might like a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity.”

“Oh, it’s going to get ugly quickly,” Nat promised. Peggy could hear the hint of evil laughter in her voice and her lips curled in response.

“It’s been a while since we’ve even seen him,” Sharon murmured once they rang off.

“Who? Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“I was surprised when he showed up for my dinner,” Peggy agreed, revisiting her birthday night. Their circle of friends was tight; Peggy hadn’t extended the invitation to him directly, but he showed up as her friend Carol’s dinner partner, since so many of Peggy’s friends were coupled off. It was obvious that the two were only platonic after a while, since Peggy’s questions about how they met were met with blushes and awkward looks from Mr. Rogers and teasing and snark from Carol. Carol admitted the next day that Steve was merely a close friend, and that they often exchanged favors like this whenever the other needed a casual date for an event, or just didn’t want to arrive alone and look like a dork. Steve was shy, enormous, and adorable, and Peggy didn’t have much of an opportunity to chat him up before he beat feet.

Steve hadn’t stayed past dessert. He made his goodbyes to Peggy, merely nodding them to the rest of the table at large. He gave Carol a perfunctory peck on the cheek and was off. He missed the arrival of a certain brunet who got caught up watching a UFC Pay-per-View fight at a bar around the corner and lost track of time… Bucky managed to get there in time to finish Peggy’s tostada that she’d planned to take home, much ~~well maybe not that much~~ to her annoyance. She indulged him, and he bought her a birthday drink. Peggy’s stalwart refusal of his offer of a birthday lap dance didn’t faze Bucky, nor did Clint’s emphatic, “Aw, noooooo!” from the other end of the table.

Sharon managed to capture the lap dance on her phone. It was a YouTube _hit_. 

“I hope Bucky is up to it,” Peggy murmured. “He’s been so down since finishing things with Dick Face.”

“We’ll have food and alcohol. Bucky will be fine,” Sharon assured her.

“And at least he can’t get into anymore trouble on Game Night. There’s enough of us there to save him from himself. He might behave; who knows?”

*

“Steve-O. C’mere a sec and taste this.” Sam held out a wooden spoon coated in the sauce he was stirring on the stovetop. Steve got up from the floor, abandoning his calculus book on the coffee table, and padded into the kitchen. He smirked at Sam.

“Is it awful? Is this one of those times when something tastes so bad that you have to make me taste it, too?”

“That was _once_.”

“That was the worst burrito ever. The memory of it… it’s like a phantom burrito that keeps haunting me with how shitty it was.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I said I was sorry.”

“Not sorry enough.”

“Just taste this, please. Give it a chance.” Steve quirked one sandy brow at him and leaned forward to blow on the spoon, which was still steaming. He dutifully lipped at it, then sipped, licking his lips.

“Oh. Wow. WOW. That’s… that’s actually good.”

“My first attempt at green enchiladas. I already cooked the pork. Be honest. More salt?”

Steve held up his finger and thumb, squinting and giving Sam a little nod. “Just a teeny smidgen. But it’s perfect. When do we eat?”

“Sooner, if you’d give me a hand.”

“With what?”

“You’re on tortilla dipping duty.”

“Give me the hard part,” Steve muttered.

“Use that pan.” Sam nodded to a pyrex thirteen-by-nine baking dish on the counter. Steve ripped open the pack of flour tortillas. “And get the big skillet.”

“You realize I have no clue what I’m doing, right?”

“Gon’ learn _today_ ,” Sam quipped, in his best imitation of Kevin Hart. So they spent the next twenty minutes, dredging tortillas in green chile sauce and transferring them, dripping and falling apart, onto the plate to roll up with Sam’s stewed pork. Sam took over after Steve mangled the first two and banished Steve to cheese grating duty instead.

“Next time, I’m helping you with spaghetti instead.”

“All you do to help is open the jar.”

“I have big strong hands, Sam. Let me play up my personal strengths. As my roommate, you should be building up my self esteem.”

“Those big, strong hands of yours get to wash the dishes tonight,” Sam countered. “You can use ‘em to open jars tomorrow night. We’re bringing salsa to game night.”

“Game night?”

“At Clint and Nat’s.”

Steve pulled a face. “Oh, no. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can!” Sam gave him an indignant look. “You haven’t been out of the apartment in weeks. Get yourself back in circulation. Look at you.” Sam made a disparaging, all-encompassing gesture at Steve. “I can’t take another night of you home in those pajamas.” Steve had on a faded tee printed with The Tick and Arthur that had shrunk from so many washings and sported a hole in the armpit. His flannel Simpsons sleep pants were in no better condition. 

“Don’t hurt their feelings,” Steve crooned, hugging himself and stroking the fabric of the shirt. 

Sam tsked in disgust. “That’s pitiful. I’m prying you out of here, and you’re wearing a shirt with a collar. And hair product.” Sam reached out and scraped Steve’s flyaway bangs off of Steve’s forehead. “When was the last time you had this mess trimmed?”

Steve made a noncommittal noise, shrugging. “It’s not that bad yet.”

“I’m gonna get you a banana clip. The eighties kind, so you can comb it up into a faux-hawk.”

“That’s cruel, Wilson.”

“If you love me at all, you’re going to SuperCuts tomorrow.”

“I don’t even wanna go to game night,” Steve whined, but Sam was wearing him down a little. 

“There’ll be food. And card games. And beer without going to the bar.”

That held a certain appeal.

“And Peggy will be there. You like Peggy.”

Steve’s eyes lit up. “The cute one with the accent? I like Peggy,” he agreed. “So, by game night, are we talking… what? Dungeons and Dragons? Candy Land? What do you usually play?”

Sam snickered and gave him a shove. “Candy Land… no. No, no, no. We play the good stuff. Cards Against Humanity, maybe some Scrabble or Monopoly, Apples to Apples… it’s fun. Just come.”

Steve threw a too-generous handful of cheese over the plate of enchiladas and shrugged.

There were worse things than card games and beer.

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Eh.” Steve shrugged again.

“Just get a haircut.”

*

Clint snuck up on Steve at the bookstore and pounced, jabbing his sides with his fingers and making him jump a mile. Steve yelped and dropped a handful of lanyards that he’d been unpacking from a box. “Shit!” he hissed. “You suck, Barton!”

“Steve said bad language words,” Clint announced loudly, pointing at him and earning himself looks from everyone else in the aisle.

“What do you want?”

“Your hot bod.”

“You’ve got Nat’s hot bod,” Steve reminded.

“Can’t have too many,” Clint reminded him. “But hey, are you coming tonight?”

“What? For game night?”

“Yes!” Clint held out his fist for a bump. “I told Wilson to bring you.”

“Just for a little while. I’ve got a canvas I need to finish.”

“No stress. The more, the merrier. Especially if you bring beer, too. Seriously. You and Wilson bring beer.” Then Clint smirked. “Hey.”

“What?”

Clint leaned in conspiratorially, and he glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. “Do you still have it?”

“Have what?”

“You know what,” Clint said, leering. “That photo.”

“What?” But Steve knew what, because he began to flush all the way up to his hairline. “The dick pic?”

“Yes!” Clint replied, too gleefully for Steve’s liking.

“Why would I still have that?”

“Well, do you?”

Steve turned back to sorting and hanging his lanyards. “What time is game night again?”

“What? Don’t change the subject! Do you still have it? You do, don’t you?”

“I don’t think they heard you across the campus, Barton; speak up a little.” Steve’s own voice was a loud rasp.

“Let’s see it,” he challenged.

“CLINT!” Steve’s eyes widened. “Not… not here.”

“Take your break. Take a load off.”

Steve gave him an annoyed look, exhaling roughly through his nose. “Fuck… fine.” He nodded at the girl at the register, gesturing to the exit. “I’m gonna take my break,” he called.

“I’m going when you get back,” she countered. 

Clint tugged Steve by the arm out into the corridor. He was snickering the whole say. “C’mon, hand it over.”

“Why are you so eager to see this?”

“No reason. For entertainment purposes.” Clint wanted proof if it killed him, because it was a small world, and some things were just so wrong that they were _right_. Steve looked around furtively, then took out his phone. Clint contained the urge to snicker, noticing that Steve was getting flustered, but his curiosity was killing him. And Nat was gonna _love this._ Steve thumbed through his message list, then opened the string that said “Unknown number.” Clint had a hard time containing himself when he recognized it as Bucky’s. Steve handed him the phone and looked away, at anything but Clint examining that text.

“Shit,” Clint murmured. 

It was Bucky, all right.

Bucky didn’t always make the best life choices when he dealt with a breakup. Before Brock, Bucky got himself a tattoo to console himself over splitting from a previous ex who told him “long distance relationships just don’t work.” To Bucky’s credit, at least he got it below the waistband so it wasn’t in plain sight. But _still…_

It was distinctive. And memorable.

Not everyone had “What Rhymes with Bucky?” inked just below their abdomen, right above the edge of their junk. In Old English writing, no less. Because you needed a pretty font for something like that. That was just how Bucky rolled. 

Bucky’s tattoo introduced itself one day on a hiking trip they made up to their favorite swimming hole up in the mountains during summer break. It might have been Clint’s idea to go skinnydipping. Nat, Sharon and Peggy settled for sunbathing on their stomachs with their tops untied, but Bucky had gone full monty after a dare from Clint. A double dog dare. 

Bucky wasn’t having it.

In hindsight, Clint decided, there were worse things than Peggy’s birthday lap dance. _Far worse things._

Clint had his proof, but he kept scrolling through the messages out of morbid curiosity. “Whoa. Harsh.”

“What?”

“You chewed him out pretty good.”

“He woke me up out of a sound sleep with a dick pic. I could be a little testy about it.”

“Well, there was no need to hurt his feelings,” Clint told him, sounding wounded. 

Steve swiped back his phone. “What was I supposed to do? Ask him to send me some more?”

“Eh. Why not? You kept _that_ one.”

Steve’s posture was defensive as he shoved his phone back into his pocket after powering it off.

“Still don’t see you deleting it,” Clint told him, waggling his eyebrows.

“I will when I get around to it.”

“Uh-huh.”

*

Steve headed straight to the galleria and put his name on the walk-in list at Supercuts. He sat by the coffee table and thumbed through a dog-eared issue of People magazine that was at least six months old. He waited about fifteen minutes, occupying himself with an older woman there to get her perm freshened up and her adorable granddaughter who kept playing peekaboo with him from behind the gumball machine in the lobby and all of the furniture. When they called his name, he followed a razor-thin girl with a stark, black undercut, makeup done with a heavy smoky eye, and frighteningly long French manicured nails. He prayed that she didn’t put his eye out.

“Just a trim?” She snapped the drape open and fluffed it out as he sat back in her chair, fastening the velcro behind his neck.

“Nothing too drastic.”

“Can I go a little drastic?” She ran her fingers through his locks, fluffing it. (Her nails were still frightening.) “Your bangs are so long. It doesn’t do anything for your face. It’d be nice to go shorter and give it a little lift over your forehead. Show off that mug.” She reached out and tweaked his ear, and Steve felt his cheeks burning again.

“Just… don’t go to crazy?”

“Pinky swear. You’ll love it. Trust me.”

Trust her. Sure.

She shampooed him with Paul Mitchell and Joico, leaving him smelling like sorbet. But her nails actually felt good as they scrubbed and massaged his scalp, and Steve felt some of the tension unknot itself in his neck. He almost dozed off while she rinsed. “That’s not too cold, is it?”

“Mm-nnh,” he groaned. She chuckled fondly.

“Trust me. I love being in that chair myself when it’s my turn.”

“Don’t wanna get up.”

But she wrung out his short locks and tousled them with an absurdly small towel, then led him still dripping back to the chair. An episode of Catfish was showing on the small TV a few feet away, and they both watched it while she clipped away. She sifted his hair through her fingers, slanting each lock and trimming with sharp, quick dashes of the scissors. The rhythm of it was soothing, and if he was honest, it had been a while since anyone had run their hands through Steve’s hair.

“No more sheep dog. I hope you come back and let me maintain this for you.”

“Let’s see if I like it, first.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” She poked him. Steve smirked.

His nape felt cooler; he didn’t realize how long his hair had grown in the back, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that Sam was right. He might actually walk out of the shop looking halfway civilized.

His stylist flicked on a handheld hair dryer and blasted his hair on high, teasing it with her fingers and a rat-tail comb. She turned it off long enough to massage in some product, a clear, light gel that he barely felt. “This is the good stuff. It won’t dry your hair out and it’ll hold all day. And it won’t leave a lot of flakes.”

“Does it cost a grip?”

“It’s worth it.” She blasted him with the dryer again, and Steve winced at the roaring so close to his ears, but soon enough, she was finished.

“Prepare to be amazed.” With some effort, she spun the chair (she was tiny; Steve was not) so that he could see himself in the mirror above her station.

“Oh. Wow.”

“Wow,” she emphasized. “Yeah. Was I right?”

“Wow.” He grinned up at her, sheepish now. “I never doubted you.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“Thank you. My roommate will thank you.”

“I’m thanking me right now.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, and Steve ducked his head.

*

Bucky flicked through his phone at his desk while he dried his hair, still in his boxers.

“Game night?” Peter asked.

“Yup.”

“Bring me back some of Nat’s dip.”

“Maybe if there’s even any of it left.”

Peter was getting himself ready for a date with Mary Jane, trying to press a flannel shirt with the Black and Decker iron he picked up at Target, spritzing the fabric with a water bottle where it lay across the short ironing board he brought to the dorms with him. Peter was meticulous and surprisingly domesticated. “Hook me up.”

“I thought you were going out to eat?”

“I still want Nat’s dip.” He nodded to Bucky’s phone. “What’re you doing? Posting selfies in your undies?”

“Pffft… no.” Bucky was going through his old phone messages, deleting old ones from Brock. He kept the one from Nat and Clint at IHOP, out of posterity; they both looked silly in it. He paused at the one from Mr. Wonderful, i.e., the recipient of his bad judgment. Bucky re-read the message string and felt guilty all over again. He scrolled to the last one, contemplating it while his hair dripped.

 _Sorry. I’m really sorry. I know I should have said so before. I’m not a creep, I swear._ He hit send, feeling his heart skip. Then, he added _And for the record, no. This isn’t something I do all the time. I thought you were my asshole ex._ Bucky huffed, chuckling to himself. _And I might have had too many shots._

“What’re you smirking about over there?”

“Nothing,” Bucky insisted. He turned off his phone and went back to picking out his clothes. He dug his favorite black Under Armour turtleneck out of the drawer and poured himself into a pair of skinny jeans. He pulled his hair back into a slightly messy bun and debated whether or not to shave; his scruff wasn’t too bad, yet, not thick enough to look like he didn’t care.

He heard his phone ping with a text.

“Gonna answer that?”

“It’s probably Clint,” he shrugged as he shoved his phone, wallet and keys into his pocket. He doused himself in Axe and shrugged on a Southpole pullover. “Tell Mary Jane to behave yourself. She’d better get you home by curfew, young man.”

“Bring me some dip!”

Bucky headed downstairs to Peggy and Sharon’s room. The door flew open just as his hand hovered over it to knock, and Sharon stood grinning at him, with Peggy behind her still applying her lipstick.

“Look at you,” Sharon told him with a leer. “You _bathed_.”

“I did,” he bragged. “Ready?”

“Ready, Freddie,” Peggy confirmed. Both of them linked arms with him and they made their way down the back stairs toward the student parking lot. They piled into Peggy’s tiny Prius and drove over to the “College Town” neighborhoods situated by the railroad tracks. “College Town” boasted such benefits as the dilapidated laundromat, a Safeway, three check cashing stores, a liquor mart, and a twenty-four hour Walgreens. Clint and Nat had a crappy apartment, but it was _their_ crappy apartment. 

They stopped at the liquor mart and picked up a cheap bottle of wine at Peggy’s insistence and some hard cider for Sharon. Bucky stopped by the freezer in back and grabbed a handful of paletas in different flavors.

“Ew. What’re those?” Sharon asked.

“They’re awesome. They make these with milk. This one tastes like rice pudding.”

“That… sounds disgusting.”

“You’ll love it.”

All of the uncovered parking spots were taken by the time they arrived. Peggy managed to park outside the curb just shy of the red zone. “Hope we don’t get towed,” she remarked. The closer they got to the complex, the better they heard the commotion coming from the downstairs unit on the left, two doors over.

“Are we starting with Cards Against Humanity?”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I’m kicking Odinson’s ass. He took the last parking spot,” Sharon claimed, nodding to Thor’s car.

“That’s right, Thor’s coming,” Peggy mused.

“You were the one who told him,” Sharon reminded her.

“I hope Sam brought Steve, too.”

“Who?” The name didn’t spark Bucky’s memory.

“I don’t know if you ever met him. He was at my birthday.”

It didn’t ring any bells. Bucky gave her a clueless look and shrugged.

“He’s adorable,” she assured him. “If Sam got him out the door, I’m impressed.”

*

 

“Hey, HEY! Fingers,” Nat scolded as Clint reached into her pan of seven-layer dip and filched a few of the olives decorating the top. He backed away with exaggerated fear, then snuck back in and filched another tidbit before she could truly swat him.

“M’starved.”

“Go. Sit. Just… go.” She shooed him away as she went to answer the door. Nat was all smiles when Peggy walked in, brandishing the bottle of wine and kissing her cheek. “You _do_ love me.” She took the wine. “And it’s not in a box!”

“Only the best, darling. We’re not heathens, here. Well, not all of us.” She nodded back to Bucky, who was sucking on one of the popsicles and nodding to her around it, making unintelligible sounds.

“Kick down with one of those,” Clint called to him. Bucky threw him the rice one with raisins and made his way to the freezer to put away the rest. He planted himself on the couch, where Thor sat opening the Monopoly box. 

“I thought we were playing Cards Against Humanity,” Bucky accused.

“Nat’s worried about their neighbors. They’re home tonight. Older couple. And you know how Clint gets.” Clint looked up from his popsicle; he was in the middle of cramming half of it into his mouth.

“What?” he garbled.

“You know what,” Thor told him.

Bucky took a minute to check his phone; he felt more texts vibrating in his pocket during the ride over.

*

The texts, when Steve got them, made him blush again. Sam poked him when it was their turn in line at the Safeway as they had their beer rung up.

“Put the phone down and buy the booze,” he scolded.

“I’m broke because someone made me get a haircut today,” Steve argued, but he took out his debit card, anyway, and swiped it at the dock. They refused the offer of a bag and each carried a beer case under their arm as they headed to Sam’s blue Volkswagen. He took out his phone and saw the notifications on the screen.

 _Sorry. I’m really sorry. I know I should have said so before. I’m not a creep, I swear._

Then, _And for the record, no. This isn’t something I do all the time. I thought you were my asshole ex._

Then, _And I might have had too many shots._

“What’s that look for?”

“What look?”

“That ‘Steve Rogers Thoroughly Disapproves’ look,” Sam told him. “Yeah, that one.”

“I’m not making the look.”

“Yes, you are. That’s your dad face.”

“It’s nothing,” Steve mumbled. Even though he hated lying to Sam.

*

“How much do they pay in rent here?”

“Ya don’t wanna know,” Sam assured Steve as he knocked on the door.

“Must be nice to have covered parking.”

“I’d settle to be more than fifty yards away from the train tracks.”

They heard music and loud chatter from inside the door, and Clint’s voice arguing with someone behind him before he jerked it open. “Well, it’s about time!” he bellowed. “And that’s all the beer you brought?” He shook his head, looking resigned. “Sorry, guys. That won’t work. Can’t let you in. But you can leave that here.” He went to reach for the beer, but Sam swatted his hand away, grinning.

“Well, maybe we’ll just take our alcohol and go!”

“Pfffft… get your sorry asses in here.” Clint reached out and clapped Sam on the back as he crossed the threshold, then he reached out to shake Steve’s hand. He made an impressed sound at Steve’s hard grip. “Hey, big guy.”

“Something smells good.”

“Seven-layer dip. You, my friend, are in for a treat.”

“Clint knows I’m gonna steal away his woman one of these days,” Sam hinted.

“Not on your best day, Wilson.”

“If he lets me hold the remote and rubs my feet, I’m his,” Nat argued as she approached Sam, linking arms with him and giving him a coy wink. “Hey.”

“How _you_ doin?’” Sam winked back, and Steve looked away from the gross flirting. Sam was known for it.

“Hey, is this your roomie? Don’t be rude. Introductions, please.”

“Steve.” His hand dwarfed hers, but he was impressed the strength in her slender fingers, and by the fact that she actually liked _Clint._

“Natasha.” Then she went around the room. “That’s Scott. Hank. Thor.” Thor was ridiculously pretty and built like a brick house. He smiled at Steve and shook his hand like he was his new best friend, and he flushed. 

“Please,” he told Steve.

“Likewise.” But to his disappointment, he turned and said “This is Jane.” A tiny brunette with luminous brown eyes sidled up to Thor and looped her arm around his waist, leaning up into his kiss before greeting Steve. _Wishful thinking._

“And don’t forget me,” Peggy called out from the dining table, where she was opening two bags of Tostitos. She sailed over and air-kissed him, then tentatively touched his hair.

“You look so presentable! Look, Sharon, he’s newly shorn!”

“Like a fluffy lamb,” Sharon chimed in, but she looked impressed, and she joined in on ruffling his hair.

“That’s enough of that,” he muttered, swatting at her hands. He smoothed it back in irritation before a movement from caught the corner of his eye from the kitchen.

A tall, breathtaking man shrink-wrapped in Under Armour was standing by the sink, wrapping the stick of the popsicle he was holding in a paper towel to keep it from dripping. Then he leaned down and engulfed the top of it with his mouth, sucking on it with those lush, deep pink lips.

Steve’s stomach flipped, and his heartbeat double-timed when the vision before him lapped at a runaway drop of popsicle juice, chasing it down the side of the treat with his tongue. _Jesus_ , he was pretty. “Bucky! Come out and say hi,” Peggy demanded, and Steve loomed in the kitchen doorway behind her, at a loss for words as he looked up from his treat.

“This is Steve. You missed him by a hair at my birthday.”

No.

It was _Bucky’s_ birthday as he looked his fill at Peggy’s friend, who was at least six feet tall, honey blond, and had piercing blue eyes and biceps for _days_.

“Wow,” Bucky murmured, then stammered, “Hey. Bucky. Uh… James, but it’s… really Bucky.”

“Hey, Really Bucky.” Steve’s lips twisted when Bucky was about to shake his hand, then had to transfer the popsicle to the other one first. 

Bucky’s hand was faintly sticky, but warm, with long fingers and short, clean nails.

“You brought beer. I brought popsicles.” He was searching for something to say that wouldn’t make himself sound deficient. Alarms went off in his head when he realized that he was still shaking Steve’s hand. “You might… want that back.” His voice trailed off as he let go. 

...was Blondie _blushing_?

“No one wants those disgusting popsicles but you,” Peggy accused. “I think you were counting on that so you wouldn’t have to share.”

“What? They’re good,” Clint shot back, holding up his half-eaten one from the living room as proof. “C’mon! Gather ‘round. It’s time for Cards.”

“Monopoly, Clint!” Nat corrected him.

Clint through a mini-tantrum, stomping his feet and pounding his fists into the couch. “Nooooo-whoa-ohhhhhhh!”

“Do you need a time-out?” Nat warned. Clint pouted up at her with big, soulful blue eyes.

“Wanna play Cards. Pretty please?? Pleeeeaasssse…” Clint got down on his knees and hugged Nat around the waist.

“Oh, my God, I don’t know you…” She made motions of scraping him off, but he kissed her stomach.

“Just this once…”

“Neighbors, doofus!”

“Look… look. Wait.” He got up and made a gesture to wait, holding up his finger. “Look. I’m going upstairs to ask them if it’s okay. Just… hold on!” He told the group at large “JUST HOLD ON!” and ran out of the apartment, attempting to slam the door after himself but letting it bounce off the jamb. 

“Did you feed him red dye again?” Scott asked Nat.

“Not much,” Nat murmured.

“Ah. Good.”

Bucky was quietly pleased as he finished his paleta and chucked the stick and sticky paper towel into the garbage. He loved Cards Against Humanity. After the week he’d had, he needed the laughs. He peeked over at Steve, who took a place on one end of the long couch. Bucky low-key sank onto the love seat that was kitty-corner to it right before Clint burst back inside.

“They went out! Their across-the-hall neighbor said they told her they were going to a movie!” Clint gloated. “We’re playing Cards! Put that shit away, Thor!” Thor looked disappointed as he swept the Monopoly game pieces and tiny motels back into the box and folded the board.

“I was going to be banker,” he complained.

“I get to deal!’ Clint called out, too gleeful for anyone’s liking. 

“This is gonna go downhill fast,” Scott groaned. 

Steve checked his phone, giving the screen a furtive smile. Bucky caught him tapping out a message with his thumb, admiring his big hands. He wondered who made him smile like that. 

_Just be glad I didn’t end up on an airplane that crashed in the middle of nowhere. They would have found my phone near my body in the wreckage and found your dick pic. I would have shamed you in death._ Then, he huffed a laugh, adding _Like using dental records to identify someone. But it would be a dick pic._

Bucky took his cards from Clint and leafed through them, chuckling through his selections. “A homerotic volleyball montage” and “Passive Aggressive Post-It Notes” really spoke to him. Then he heard his phone chirp at him with a message. He wondered who it was; all of his friends were already here.

“Anthropologists have recently discovered an ancient tribe that worships- blank,” Clint called out. “C’mon. Corrupt my brain. Make it filthy, people. Don’t disappoint me. Peggy, come on and lower my expectations.”

Peggy smiled and gently set down her card. “My genitals!” she announced triumphantly.

“Oh, God,” Steve muttered, blushing all the way up to his hairline and covering his eyes, but Bucky caught his smile.

Nat was next. “A bleached asshole.”

“Yes!” Sharon crowed before he slapped down her card. “I see your bleached asshole, and I raise you ‘The placenta.’ BAM!”

Bucky missed Clint’s reaction when he saw the text.

 _Like using dental records to identify someone. But it would be a dick pic._ Bucky snickered. No one could tell Sharon’s draw wasn’t to blame.

Okay. His mis-dial was a smartass. Okay. Bucky could work with that.

_Not if you deleted it._

Steve checked the text and felt a little tingle of guilt. 

“Lance Armstrong’s missing testicle!” Jane cried.

“I’m in love with a deviant,” Thor mused, looking appalled. She gave him a little shove, and he grinned.

_Sure. I can delete it, unless you haven’t uploaded it to your Grindr profile yet?_

Bucky went with “the taint, the grundle, the fleshy fun bridge” and was met by disgusted sounds around the room (and wild applause from Clint).

“He won that one,” Clint told him, handing him the black card to start his stack.

Then Bucky suppressed a squawk of indignance when he saw the next text.

 _I’m not on Grindr! Punk. You’re mean…_ Then he decided to give him a little dig. _Why? Gonna search for my profile, now?_

Bucky waited a beat. 

_You just said you weren’t on Grindr! Make up your mind! Jerk!_

Steve bit the inside of his cheek trying not to laugh as he texted. Nat got up and offered him a beer and gave him a coaster. Nat gave Bucky a curious look.

“Who are you texting?”

“Nobody.”

“Better not be dick face,” she whispered hotly. Bucky squinted up at her, not amused. She squinted back, brandishing her fist at him.

Steve wondered who Dick Face was, and he smiled and looked away when Bucky caught him staring. “Uh. Hey.”

“Hey.”

“We brought beer, if, uh… you-”

“I’m kinda thirsty.”

Bucky took the opportunity to glance at Steve’s ass as he got up and to check his phone. He bit his lip, snickering. Okay. Okay.

He needed to put his phone away. Mr. Wrong Number was fun, but he wasn’t the cute blond in American Eagle jeans that smelled like pine and detergent.

*

“Nat,” Clint hissed, waving her into the kitchen as she began to gather up the empty beer bottles for the recycling. “C’mere.”

“What?”

“Check them out.”

“Who?”

“Steve-O and Barnes.” He was trying to contain himself, but he was giggling like a middle schooler. He leaned in and whispered into her ear, “They’ve both been texting all night.”

Nat’s brows drew together, but then he followed his gaze.

Bucky lifted a chip loaded with refried beans to his mouth before checking his phone, then practically choked on it. Steve was across the room from him, talking with Thor, but Nat noticed him putting his phone back into his pocket.

“Oh, shit…”

“Told you. You didn’t believe me before, did you?”

“This is too much. I just… I can’t.” Nat covered her mouth, but her eyes were crinkling above her hand.

“Should we tell them?” Clint had that glint in his eye. No good ever came from it.

“No! Don’t you dare!”

“Don’t Clint dare what?” Sam interjected. “Just getting another beer.”

“Don’t dare Clint cross me,” Nat explained. “He’s cruising for a knuckle sandwich.”

“We’re all surprised he has any teeth left, woman,” Sam shot back as he grabbed a can of Yuengling from the cooler.

“Oh, that’s cruel, Wilson. I thought we were tight.”

“You’re on your own,” Sam told him as he went back to perching on the ottoman and flirting with Sharon. Nat turned back to Clint, grabbing his shirt.

“You can’t tell them. It would freak them out.”

“Pffft… they’ll be fine. Look at ‘em.” Nat risked a glance back at them, and saw that Scott had abandoned his seat next to Steve on the couch. “C’mon,” Clint encouraged under his breath, willing Bucky to make a move.

Bucky rose and picked up his beer, moving the coaster to the coffee table. Steve looked up at him, eyes lighting up as he moved over and made room for him.

“Bingooooooooo,” Clint purred, elbowing Nat and pinching her cheek.

“Just keep it to yourself,” she urged. “Let’s see how this plays out.”

*

The cards and the alcohol made the room more raucous and turned the air blue with profanity. Even shy Steve earned himself looks of shock from Peggy and Nat. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers?

“Steve said bad language words.”

“It’s the cards,” he insisted, but he was giggling every few seconds, and it got ten times worse every time he glanced at Bucky. His neighbor on the couch wore the loopiest grin ever, undoing him and turning him on way more than it should have.

“You said bad language words,” Bucky accused, poking him in the ribs, and that set off more hysterical laughter.

Steve’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. His cheeks were red and he was radiating so much body heat, pressed close to Bucky and bumping against him every time someone pulled a raunchy card. His voice was rich, deep, and slightly hoarse. Then he sobered for a moment, settling back into the couch cushions. “Whatsamatter?”

“Just… nothing. Just had a thought.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s fine.” Bucky didn’t want to press. “Hey. Want a beer?”

“Oh. No. M’good. I’ve had enough. I’m hot!” Steve told him, fanning his shirt collar in and out to cool himself.

“Uh… how about a popsicle?” Bucky leapt up from his seat before Steve could protest.

“You don’t have to… okay,” he called out after the fact. He heard the freezer door being yanked open and a rustle of plastic. Bucky hurried back, and he had one of the odd-looking (questionable) popsicles already unwrapped. He leaned down and handed it to Steve with a flourish. Their fingertips bumped around the stick, and Steve felt a funny little jolt of pleasure in his stomach.

“Try it,” Bucky encouraged.

“What… flavor is it?”

“ _Rompope_ ,” Bucky informed him.

“Rome… what-what?”

“Just taste it. It’s good.”

It was an opaque, whitish-yellow with little brown specks swimming in it. “Should I trust you?”

“C’mon! You’re in for a treat!” Bucky was grinning, and Steve knew he’d never be able to refuse that face anything. He hesitated, giving Bucky one more dubious glance before his lips grazed over the surface of the pop. He smacked them, tasting a bit of the sticky sweet, and his eyes grew round.

“Shit. That’s… is that egg nog-flavored?” The brown specks were cinnamon and nutmeg.

Bucky was nodding and grinning. “Huh? Yeah? Like that?”

“Egg nog,” Steve said in wonder before taking another taste. “That’s… such a weird flavor for a popsicle.”

“I know, right? But it’s good, right?”

“Yes, it’s… wow.” Steve sucked on the top corner, then licked his lip again. “That’s _ridiculous_. Shit, it’s dripping everywhere.”

“They melt fast. Let me get you… something… hold on!” Bucky darted off for a paper towel. Steve’s efforts at eating the popsicle became more frantic as he tried not to drip on Nat’s couch.

His lips were bright red from the cold sweet when Bucky came back. Bucky’s jeans felt tight. He tried - and failed - not to stare.

“I’m mad at you. I’m gonna be mad if you make me addicted to these, now.”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky made a motion of wiping his own mouth. “You’ve got some on your face.”

“Of _course_ I do.” Steve rolled his eyes and wiped the corner Bucky indicated. And missed the smear. “Did I get it?”

“Nope.”

“I’m an adult. I can feed myself, I promise…” He made another swipe with the sticky paper towel and made another smudge on his lip.

“Hold on.” Bucky didn’t think twice. He reached out and wiped off the smear with his thumb, swiping it against the plump, cool red lip.

“Jesus,” Clint muttered under his breath as he drew another card. 

“They’re ridiculous,” Nat hummed back. 

*

Clint and Nat’s neighbors returned, rapping on their door before they clomped up the stairs and signaling the end of the game. Nat made a face as she got up and stretched, cracking her back on one side, then the other.

“Ugh. Too much dip. I’m beat. All of you heathens need to leave.”

“Awwwww,” Sharon pouted. She began helping Nat clear the empty plates and bottles, wiping up small spills with crumpled paper towels as she went. Peggy yawned from the love seat, where she was slumped next to Scott.

“This heathen’s tired,” she pronounced. “I want to take some dip home.”

“Only if you bring back my Tupperware,” Nat said.

“Me, too,” Bucky piped up. “Peter begged me to bring some back to him.”

“Roommate?” Steve’s expression was guarded.

“Yeah, he lives with me. Still in the dorms.” Steve heard the faint note of bitterness in his tone. “Apartment plans fell through at the beginning of the semester.”

“Okay.”  
“It was no big deal.”

“That’s fine.” Steve had an awesome roommate. He didn’t get stuck scrambling because of an ex who dumped him, Bucky thought bitterly.

Jane, Thor, Hank and Scott were quick with their goodbyes and all lived within walking (staggering) distance of the apartment complex. Peggy was packing up two small Glad containers of dip and rolling up the lower half of a bag of chips, closing it off with a rubber band from a ball of them that Nat pulled out of the junk drawer. 

“So, you’re coming next time, right?” Bucky touched Steve’s arm, then withdrew it shyly, hooking his thumb in his front pocket.

“If someone invites me back. It’s looking iffy. Think I was too loud,” Steve whispered (loudly), and he touched Bucky’s arm back, letting it linger for a few seconds. “Hey. uh. Let. Let me get… your number.” He fumbled in his pocket for the phone that he’d furtively typed on all night. “Bucky…?” He waited for confirmation of his lasts name.

“Barnes.”

“Right. Wow. That’s… alliterative.”

Bucky snickered. “Yes, it is. Shut up.”

Steve cackled. The beer and sugar was getting to him. “B-A-R-N- uh…”

“E-S,” Bucky finished for him. 

“Hold still. Say cheese.” Steve snapped a quick shot of him just as Bucky was opening his mouth and holding out his hand to protest. “Oh, that’s beautiful!” He was sputtering, and Bucky reached out to grab it from him.

“C’mon, let me see that… please don’t use that as my contact! Have a heart! Don’t!”

“Okay. Sorry. I won’t. Promise. Smile, please.” Bucky gave him a GQ pose and a “Blue Steel” look that managed not to make him look like a douche. (Steve found it kind of adorable.) He showed it to him, and Bucky grinned, nodding.

“Now you get to look at my pretty mug every time I ring you.”

“Can’t wait.” Steve’s smile turned sheepish, and he rubbed his nape. He punched in his number when he recited it. “There you are.” He showed Bucky his contact tab, and he gave him a thumbs-up.

“Now I’ll do you.”

Both of them erupted into giggles when the words left his mouth. “That’s… so not what I meant. Oh, my God…”

“Suuuuuure, it wasn’t,” Nat mentioned as she walked by, face completely deadpan. “Help clean up, you idiots.” 

“In a sec!” Bucky snapped Steve’s picture just as he turned to face him.

“I wasn’t ready!”

“You look great, don’t worry about it. Number,” he grilled.

Steve rattled it off. “Rogers. My last name.”

“That’s what Peggy told me,” Bucky told him, making him wonder what else Tall, Dark and Beefy had been told. Steve hoped to God it was only the good stuff. Bucky plugged it into his contacts and tucked it back into his pocket. He didn’t see any further texts from the Mystery Guy, but the last one had laughing emojis in it. Bucky was still patting himself on the back for turning his goof-up around.

He didn’t notice that the mysterious number on his text list now had a _name_.

“So. Sam and I are… gonna go. Early day tomorrow. Big canvas to finish.” Then he explained, “I paint.”

“Canvas. Right.” Bucky nodded. “You could… maybe take a picture of it. Wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

“Wouldn’t mind showing it to you. After I get it graded,” Steve offered, and he was flushing again as the awkwardness set in. He felt weird boasting about his art. And it was worse, if he liked someone new. Afraid they would look at his hard work and critique it right out of the gate. He hated being so sensitive, but it was his art. It was a part of him. It wasn’t something he just wanted to hold up for someone’s inspection, have them squint at it and say, “Mmmmm. So-so.”

No, _no_.

Their goodbye in the parking lot was casual, because Sam, Sharon and Peggy were all watching and it would only get weird the longer they lingered. But they kept sneaking looks at each other as each car pulled out of the lot. Steve’s smile was tired but sexy as he waved through the window. Bucky’s eyes looked a little bloodshot but _so blue_ in the headlights.

*

Bucky made it back to his dorm in a dreamy haze, remembering Steve’s laugh and his jokes that grew more ribald as they hung out and played Cards and how good he smelled. His skin still tingled everywhere that he’d bumped or grazed against him, and his hand remembered the feel of those lips, however fleeting, and he hardened all over again. He down to his boxers and t-shirt and wandered down the hall to the men’s to brush his teeth and pee. He groaned as he relieved himself, listening to his bladder thank him profusely. Bucky popped a couple of Motrin (taking a page from his last night out), brushed his teeth halfheartedly (knowing they would feel like they were wearing a fur coat by morning) and headed back to bed. He flopped onto it and pulled the covers up to his chest, then grabbed his phone from his discarded jeans. He went back into his contacts and looked at the new tab, then smiled dopily at the tiny, round photo of Steve Rogers. 

Cards. Beer. Laughter. Texting with Mystery Guy on and off through the night. It was fun.

It had just been so much _fun_.

*

Steve was bleary-eyed and worn out by the time he fell into bed. Sam forced a bottle of water on him before he went to bed, guaranteeing he’d have to pee like a racehorse in the middle of the night, but he felt _good_. Listening to Bucky, laughing with him, realizing that gleam in those pretty eyes was for him just felt so _good_.

He grinned at his phone contact screen. Maybe he could drop him a text tomorrow. Just to see how he woke up.

*

“Geez.” Peter took one look at the clothes strewn on the floor and the way Bucky was sprawled face down, limbs everywhere in the tangle of covers and whistled, impressed. “Man. Someone got _torn up_.”

“Nnnngh.” Bucky’s voice was a hoarse gargle.

“Did you bring me dip.”

“Nnnnnnngh. Ng-hnnn,” Bucky agreed without opening his eyes. Peter opened the mini-fridge in front of their window and laughed.

“Aw, sweet!” He popped open the lid and dug his finger into it, making a pleased noise. “No chips?”

“Peggy has ‘em,” Bucky told him. “M’sleepin’, Petey.”

“C’mon. Wake up!” Peter swatted the mound of Bucky’s rump under the covers, making him groan loud and long.

“Fuck off.”

“No one told you to go out and get messed up.”

“Why not? Had fun,” he told him as he rolled over to face him. Bucky’s eyes were squinty, but a smile tugged at his chapped lips. “Got to hang out with Steve.”

Peter raised his brows. “Do I know him?”

“Friend of Peggy’s. S’nice.” Bucky yawned. “Cute.”

“Awwwwww.”

“Don’t ‘awwwwww’ me,” Bucky complained. “You sound like a sap.”

“You’re the sap,” Peter argued. “You’re the one talking about him being ‘cute.’”

“Well, he is.” Bucky pulled his phone off the nightstand and thumbed through it, still squinting. He found his contact and showed it to his roomie. “See? He ain’t bad.”

“He ain’t. I actually know the guy. Works at the bookstore.” Bucky bought most of his texts online and hardly ever went to the bookstore. “Looks like a big Boy Scout.”

“Shut your filthy mouth. Does _not_.”

“C’mon. You’d like him in the uniform, with the badges and the little scarf around the neck-”

He ducked when Bucky threw his shoe at him. Peter snickered. “You can’t aim when you’re hungover.”

“Then stand still!”

“Nope. I’m heading to Peggy’s for chips.” He took the phone from him, asking “Let me see that again?” Bucky relinquished it, stretching. “I can see you liking this guy. He looks decent. Your ex was a creep. He had evil eyebrows.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“He did! Brock had evil brows! Like a cartoon villain without the catchy theme song. Brock was a dick. Admit it.” He tapped the phone screen. “This guy looks nice-ish. Call him. Then maybe you’ll stop moping around here and taking up space.”

“Asshole.”

“And how many times did you text this guy? Sheesh. Look at all these messages. I thought you were playing games last night. You had a full-on _date_ on your phone!” He tossed it back to Bucky, who almost dropped it from surprise.

“Uh…”

“Later.” Peter disappeared with the dip. Bucky felt a flutter of something like panic in his gut.

He opened the lock screen and clapped his mouth over the texts that now had _Steve Rogers_ stamped on them, written and read all through the night. Progressively bolder. Sillier. Plastered with emojis.

And all following Bucky’s dick pic.

“I’m so _fucked._ ”

*

Sam caught Steve drinking coffee straight out of the pot in his boxers, looking like death warmed over. His hair product had left his hair squished flat on one side after he slept on it, and Sam could tell Steve slept _rough_. His eyes were buried under heavy bags and he had a pillow crease in his cheek, and a little dried drool down the side of his mouth and neck. “Oh, good morning, Sunshine,” Sam sang out, letting his hand patter over his chest. “Don’t you look _gorgeous_.”

“Can it, Wilson.”

“I don’t know where your mouth has been, so that pot’s yours,” Sam told him, nodding to the coffee carafe.

“My mouth hasn’t been anywhere special,” Steve reminded him. “Clint was the one who told me it was ‘like the Sahara Desert in them drawers.’”

Sam smirked. “Yeah, but was he wrong?”

“You’re a cruel, cruel man. I don’t know why we’re still friends.”

“You love me for my honesty and winning charm.”

“I love you because you pay your half of the rent and cable bill on time. And you share your wifi password.”

“True that. That _hurts_ , but that’s honesty, too.”

“Charming honesty.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Fair enough.”

“Go take a shower, or something.” Sam grabbed the edge of Steve’s t-shirt sleeve and took a whiff. “Mother of God… it’s like something died.”

“Hey! Quit it,” Steve told him, swatting away his hands. “Bucky didn’t mind.”

“Yeah. Don’t think we all didn’t notice that. Y’all were a mess. Hanging all over each other.”

Steve choked on his next gulp of coffee. “No, we weren’t!”

“Hell, yes, you were!” Sam cheered. “All up in each other’s faces. I saw him wipe your mouth for you. Caught him licking whatever it was off his thumb, too, like he was all slick.”

Steve could put a raspberry to shame. He felt the hot flush cover his ears and rise all the way to his hairline in an instant. Through his growing fog of shame, a voice screamed in Steve’s head _Bucky tasted me???_ Then, _Focus, Steve!_ “It wasn’t… he wasn’t. Doing that. He handed me a napkin, for God’s sake, Sam!”

“You kept missing with it!” Sam argued, and Steve winced at the way his voice rose.

“Keep it down! Geez!”

“You’re pitiful. And he can see you coming from miles away, Rogers. You like that boy.”

“Well, he’s _nice_. And funny. And he smiles with his eyes. Not everybody can do that.”

“Yes, he was nice, Steven,” Sam told him in his dad voice. “Now _please_ go take a shower. Flies are dying in your orbit.”

Sam only laughed when he flipped him off. Steve made them both some eggs scrambled with sliced salami and black olives and sprinkled with mozzarella; salty food was hangover food. Steve scrolled through his phone, checking his Facebook. Peggy had updated her feed with a photo she took of them laughing and tagged him in it. The replies were as funny as her post, some of them making him cringe. She had a picture of him and Bucky cracking up, with Steve’s hand hooked over his shoulder, and she captioned it “Will you just look at these two???!” Steve covered his mouth.

“Aw, man. She tagged us together, Sam.”

“It was gonna happen,” Sam said, shaking his head and shrugging. “With y’all acting all cute and sickening with each other. When are you gonna call him?”

“I’ll get around to it.” Steve was hedging as he went back to his phone, then minimized the window. He went to his messages, and he noticed that Bucky’s name was in the top row. “Oh. Looks like he already… texted me. Uh.”

“What?” Sam paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, raising his brow in its signature “What Did You Do Now” Quirk.

“He messaged me. A LOT. Oh, wow. Wow.”

Steve didn’t know blushing then like he knew it _now_. His whole body was on fire with tingles of embarrassment.

Bucky Barnes.

Was _Dick Guy._

*

 

There was no way Bucky could text him, now. There was _no way_. He showered, ate, and lost himself in his mid-term questions for physics. He stopped every so often to scrub his palm over his face, remembering his previous shame when he first discovered Brock hadn’t gotten his spite shot.

*

There was no way Steve could text him, now. No way _in hell_. What would a person even say to someone who committed the ultimate in technology-enabled faux pas and then managed to flirt their way out of it? Steve pondered this in the shower, letting the hot spray beat against his back and course through his hair. “Shit,” he hissed. Life wasn’t fair.

He found a cute guy, who was nice, funny, smart… and apparently, a total perv. No, he corrected himself: Bucky was an _exhibitionist_. Okay.

“No, that’s not much better,” he said to the shower tiles.

Then he asked himself: Was it even that bad?

The answer, Maybe not, drifted to him as he tousled his hair dry in his room and got dressed.

Just, _maybe not_.

*

 

So.

Despite ribbing from Sam, and Bucky’s attempts at suppressing his embarrassment - Peter wouldn’t let it go once he told him, and Nat had been plain _awful_ once she let on that she knew, too - he still wouldn’t text Steve. He _had_ to know, Bucky realized, and trying to explain away what happened just… couldn’t be done. Not without a lot of groveling. Not without freaking Steve the fuck out. _Freaking. Him. The. Fuck. Out._

“And I touched _his mouth,_ ” Bucky said aloud while he worked on is calculus.

“That’s what makes this awesome!” Peter told him. “Dude! It’s not like you were low-key. You know you were into him, and that he was on to you!”

“Pete. He thinks I’m a grade-A perv.”

“Better than a grade-B perv. You have standards. And taste. He’s not bad, even if I don’t swing that way. Just text him, already.” It had been two weeks. Bucky sighed. The shame hadn’t quite worn off yet. He was still in the middling phase of being disgruntled with himself. It would have helped if he didn’t like Steve so much. If talking to him hadn’t felt so natural and easy. 

“I can’t,” Bucky said with a shrug, throwing up his hands. “He’d never go for it. He thinks I’m the worst. I know it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Just drop it, Pete.”

“Hey. I’m just sayin’. He’s seen the goods, already. You broke the ice.” Peter plugged in his earbuds and went back to microbiology text.

*

Steve walked up to Clint while he had his earbuds in where he sat on one of the food court benches and swatted him roughly. “You suck.”

“What? Why _now?_ ”

“DId you-” Steve cut himself off and looked around to make sure no one was listening, a habit when talking to Clint. “Did you really know?”

“What? About… what?”

“You know what. The picture. That it was Bucky.”

“Maybe.” Clint snickered and smacked Steve in the gut. “Just had an inkling.”

“How?”

“Because I recognized his ink. Your Romeo is funny when he’s had a few. He ain’t shy. We all went hiking and ended up skinnydipping last summer. It was awesome! You should come next time.”

“Fat chance of that. God. He’s not gonna want to talk to me again.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Would you? I kinda told him off, then flirted with him like a jackass. And then flirted with him like a jackass in _person_.”

“So, you’re a jackass squared,” Clint agreed. “S’no reason not to talk to him. Especially if ya _like’im_. We both know that you do.”

“Barton. Come on.”

“No, Rogers. YOU come on. He’s a good guy. He’s not. He’s just not. Like what you’re thinking. He really isn’t. That was a bad choice made during a bad moment by an otherwise nice guy. I’m serious. My girlfriend treats him like her kid brother. He was having an off night, and I don’t want to see you hold it against him.”

“I’m...not. Not really.” Steve sank down onto the bench. “He’s nice. I like him. I just feel like we. I dunno. Like we put the cart before the horse.”

“The cart _left_ , man. The horse is wondering what the fuck is up?”

Steve shoved him. “You still could’ve said something.”

“Nat wouldn’t let me.”

Steve growled, tugging on his hair. “If I talk to him about it, I could end up making him feel bad. Maybe he wants to forget it happened.”

“Rogers. Seriously? Shut the fuck up with that noise. This will be the story you two tell your grandchildren if you just get your head. Out. Of. Your. Ass. And TEXT him.” Clint smacked Steve with his binder with each word.

“You’re an awful friend.”

“I know. I enable you too much. Text Barnes. Better yet, call him. You guys suck at texts.”

*

 

It should have been that easy.

It was, after a fashion. Kind of.

Steve couldn’t have predicted that he would end up soaking his knuckles with an ice pack when he woke up that morning, but life didn’t always happen the way you expected. He supposed he would have been bored if it did, really.

Bucky should have been more upset with him, too. That was the usual reaction when you did something ill-advised on another person’s behalf. 

Good intentions and ill-advised reactions went hand in hand with Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes would have it no other way:

 

Bucky emerged in the men’s locker room, still dripping and scrubbing at his hair with his towel. He was grateful for the college’s indoor pool, or he wouldn’t have taken a swimming class for his PE credit that semester. It didn’t bother him too much to go to physics smelling like chlorine; swimming laps made him feel invigorated and loose. His abs thanked him for it when he glanced in the mirror. The endorphins were still lighting up his mood when he heard a familiar rasp behind him.

“Hey. What’s going on, Jimmy?”

Bucky spun on Brock, suppressing a shudder at his leer that tried too hard to be a sexy smile. His dark eyes swept over Bucky in his damp, clinging swim trunks. “You look a little chilly. Water cold?”

“It was fine,” Bucky told him, hating the way he had to look to Brock, right now. Skin slick, nipples pebbled from the chill in the air just as much from the unwanted attention, his veins standing out in stark relief in his arms and throat. Brock had always liked when he first stepped out of the shower. That memory didn’t appeal to Bucky now.

“Yeah? Bet it felt good.”

“It was fine,” he repeated blandly as he opened his locker.

“Got class?”

“Yeah.”

“Chemistry?”

“Physics.” His tone was still flat as he pulled out his clothing and the drawstring bag he kept for his damp suit.

“Got time for me to take you for a quick coffee? There’s a Dutch Bros stand right there outside the science building.”

“I already had Dutch,” Bucky told him. “I’m fine. I won’t keep you.”

“That’s okay. You’re not keeping me,” Brock assured him. His expression was magnanimous, and his hand crept to Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing it. His thumb flicked away a bead of moisture from his skin. “Damn. You’re looking tight. You’re taking care of yourself, arentcha?”

“Brock. Don’t.” Bucky’s face held the polite wisp of a smile until his ex-boyfriend touched him. “We won’t do this.”

“Do what?” Brock huffed, but he didn’t remove his hand, even pulling Bucky back when he tried to duck out from under his grip. “Hey. I’m just inviting you to coffee. Just thought it would be nice if we hung out.”

“We decided not to hang out anymore.”

“When did we decide that?”

“When you decided to fuck someone else.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to hang out anymore- HEY! Where are you going?” Their voices had been low, furtive. There were a handful of men in the locker room returning from swimming, jogging and soccer classes, and the locker room was beginning to reek of sweat and body wash-scented steam from the showers. Bucky moved away, taking his towel with him.

“I have to get to class, Brock.”

“I’ll wait for you. Don’t take too long,” he called after him. Bucky’s cheeks burned and he heard a rushing noise in his ears. Old hurts came roaring back. The midnight texts. Brock’s dismissal of his annoyance and his worry. His verbal abuse when he accused Bucky of nagging and “checking up on him.” And the pictures he eventually found when Brock forgot to lock his screen on his phone AND his tablet. His rough treatment in bed, sometimes, when Brock would get into an argument with him, then crawl in beside him and start pulling at Bucky’s clothes without anything resembling an apology.

The last thing Bucky wanted was _coffee_.

Bucky took his sweet time in the shower, hoping Brock would get sick of it and leave. He lathered his hair with his cheap Suave shampoo (strawberry scented, the big bottle from the dollar store) and let the spray bite through the chill that had settled over him the longer he spent listening to Brock. God, it had been such a waste of time.

He heard locker doors closing and people leaving the room. He hoped Brock was one of them.

He jolted in surprise when the shower curtain rings hissed behind him as they slid across the pole. “The fuck-”

“You were taking too long,” Brock told him. He’s stripped down to his boxers for the walk through the rows of lockers to the shower, and he was about to take them off. “You’ve got tan lines. Look at that ass,” he said, whistling.

Bucky’s face was a stone mask, his voice hard and full of grit. “Get out.”

“What? I could use a shower.”

“There’s a dozen other stalls.” Bucky’s voice rose.

“What?” Brock laughed. “Gonna be all tough now? Move over.” He was about to lower the boxers again, and Bucky was too angry to be concerned about his own nudity.

“GET OUT, BROCK!”

“Sssssh! The fuck? The fuck’s wrong with you?” Brock’s smile evaporated, replaced by a dark scowl. “What’s your problem, Jimmy?”

“You. Alway you,” Bucky insisted.

“Quit yelling, dumb ass!”

“Then maybe you should start listening.”

“Yeah. Maybe you should, asshole.” The voice came from mere feet away, and Brock whipped his head around first, then huffed.

“There’s nothing going on here, why don’t you just mind your bus-”

“Nope.” Steve swam into Bucky’s line of vision for precious seconds, lips a thin line of disapproval, brows slammed low. Those huge hands grabbed Brock by the shoulders as he approached, and he _just kept walking_ , dragging him along with him.

“Steve!” Bucky yelped, thoroughly embarrassed at how close he was to him while he was _nude_ and dripping. Bucky slapped off the shower dial and scrambled for his towel.

“Look, pal-”

“Uh-uh. _You_ look. Better yet, listen to me when I remind you that he just told you to get out. That means you don’t touch him.”

“I can handle this, Steve!” Bucky insisted.

“I know you can, Buck,” Steve said, without looking away from Brock, whom he had shoved against the locker door. Brock’s expression mingled amusement with belligerence, but his voice shook.

“What, is this your boy toy, Jimmy?”

“No,” Bucky said at the same time Steve said “Yes.” They spared each other a glance. Bucky had the towel knotted around his waist, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Let him go.”

“Did he touch you, Bucky?”

“What if I did?” Brock leered.

Steve sighed.

“Hey- HEY!” Brock’s voice was an unamused bellow as Steve walked away with Brock again, this time dragging him out of the locker room and down the hall. 

“What the-!” Bucky gaped and began to run after them, then remembered his unclothed state. He rushed back to his locker, tugged on his clothes despite his damp skin, hopping into his pants and zipping them (which sucked). Bucky trotted to the exit and shoved himself through it, just in time to see Steve and Brock round the corner, back toward the pool.

“Jesus,” Bucky hissed, and his heart pounded, stomach doing weird little flips. Steve looked pissed. SO pissed. 

He got there just in time to watch Steve give Brock a boot to the ass, sending him sprawling into the pool. The swim coach barked at him “Young man! I’m going to write you up! Both of you!”

Bucky stood staring over Steve’s shoulder at Brock, who rose dripping in now see-through boxers. The students filing into the pool area from the women’s lockers pointed and snickered, taking out smartphones to capture the moment. “Wow,” Bucky murmured.

Steve turned and met his eyes. “M’sorry.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” His voice was soft, but it held judgment. Maybe even resignation.

“I know.” He winced.

Bucky threw up his hands, shooting Steve a chagrined smile before he walked out.

Prickles of shame washed over Steve’s skin. Great.

*

 

Steve was tagging a shelf of Christmas knick-knacks in the bookstore with is pricing gun, wincing at the pressure that put on his bandaged knuckles. The bookstore was rushing the holiday season, even though Halloween had barely gone by. The student health center gave him a pain-relieving cream before they dressed his hand the day before, but it still smarted with small tasks.

“Hey, Rogers,” Clint told him, giving him a brief pat. “How’s it hangin’?”

“Could be better?”

“You fucked up your hand,” he said, eyeing the bandage as Steve rhythmically tagged each item, thunking them down on the shelf one at a time, like a robot.

“Yeah. Funny story.”

“Yeah. I heard it already from Bucky. Steve. My man. That was a little excessive.”

“He was harrassing him.”

“Yeah, I got that. But when you like a guy, it’s a good idea not to shove their ex into a pool.”

“Just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“He was kinda upset.”

“I figured as much.”

“Not for the reason you think.”

Steve paused in his tagging. He gave Clint a confused look.

“O. Kay.”

“Remember how I said you should text him? I remember telling you that. I don’t think it sunk in too well, so I’ll tell you again. Text Bucky. Pick up your phone and open that contact and send him a message. Don’t dial. Dialing by hand is a bad idea. Bucky will tell you that himself.”

“But-”

“Take out your phone. I’m waiting.”

Steve exhaled roughly, matching Clint’s glare. But he took out his phone, wincing at the scrape of his pocket against his hand.

“Did you get that punching Brock?”

“No. I punched a locker. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Clint barked out a laugh. “Jesus, Rogers…”

Steve held up his hand to shush him, then hit Bucky’s contact screen. Clint waited for him to text, then looked incredulous.

“Wait, what’re you doing? You’re calling him?”

“Yeah.” Steve made shooing motions, but Clint leaned against a display of folded shirts and waited. 

It rang. Two, three times. By the fourth, Steve began to sweat and tugged on the back of his hair.

“He’s not answering.”

“Give him a sec.”

“He might not want to talk to- Hey. Bucky. It’s. It’s me.”

*

 

Lucio’s was packed by the time Steve arrived, and he was glad he wore his heavy jacket for the walk there. The autumn wind tore at him, chilling him through his jeans and making his muscles tingle as he speed-walked down the sidewalk. He had a few minutes to spare, but his stomach was a knotted-up mess of nerves.

Steve went up to the hostess inside and gave her his name, asking if there was a table for two. She looked contrite, but she still managed to be bubbly. “I have a table for ten that I’m trying to seat, but we should have a place for two in about a half an hour.”

“That’s. That’s fine,” Steve allowed. He rubbed his hands to warm up and felt claustrophobic in the crowded lobby. More than anything, he just wanted to see Bucky. 

The minutes ticked by, and Steve kept checking his phone for texts, but none came. Steve went out on a limb and deleted the message string from “Dick Guy” once Bucky’s name populated it. It felt wrong to keep it, when it created so much awkwardness between them. And if he was honest, Steve wanted to start with a clean slate. Literally.

So, that meant introducing himself properly.

Bucky stopped by five minutes before the bookstore closed, where he found Steve hanging tinsel garland around the doorway and front display window frame. He nearly startled him off the ladder as he tacked up the tinsel with a staple gun.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice was soft; maybe even a little shy. He looked up at Steve expectantly, lips twitching as Steve regained his footing and hung onto the edge of the wall. 

“Hey. Buck. How’s it… hanging?”

“You tell me.” And those eyes crinkling at Steve were his weakness, not to mention the stinker of a pun. 

“That was bad.”

“Sorry. Not sorry.” Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re off now, right?”

“In a minute. Just have to put this stuff away and clock out.”

“I can do it,” Sam volunteered, and Steve saw the gleam in his dark eyes and the barely suppressed smile. “No need to keep a body waiting.”

Sam didn’t say “your boy” or tack on any pet names like he had when Steve mentioned earlier that he was planning to meet Bucky to talk. All he’d done was clap him on the back and warn him “Don’t mess this up. Use your words.” Then, because Sam loved being must as much of a little shit as Steve, he added “And by ‘words,’ I don’t mean texting. That hasn’t worked for you two so far.”

So, they ended up here. Steve stowed the box of leftover decorations in the store room, clocked out, and headed to meet Bucky at the exit. “Ready?”

“After you.”

They waited until they left the student union building and paused at a stone bench. “I know it’s kinda late in the game to do this, but here goes nothing: I’m Steve Rogers. The guy you sent a dick pic to.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m James Barnes, but I go by Bucky. I have a horrible ex, and I occasionally make bad life choices. Like accidentally exposing myself to perfect strangers while trying to get back at said ex.”

“Charmed.”

“Hope so. When I have my clothes on, I have less to work with.”

Steve’s smile dropped, and he shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

Bucky’s smile was self-deprecating. “Here’s the thing. I’m mad at you, but I’m also mad at me.”

“Okay.” They sank down onto the bench with a few centimeters between them. Steve felt Bucky’s tension and the way he held himself away from him, and he felt insecure and small. Sam was right; they would have to use their words.

“Throwing Brock into the pool was kinda overkill,” Bucky told him. “And I don’t think I ever wanna see you get that mad at anyone again, Steve.”

Steve exhaled roughly, scrubbing his jaw with his hand. “He was threatening you. If it had just been an argument… if you had been clothed, and not. I don’t know, Bucky. You were vulnerable. Maybe I jumped the gun, and I’m sorry. You raised your voice, and you sounded like you didn’t want him there. I’m sorry if I misstepped.”

“Misstepped. Dragged him out the door in his skivvies. Yeah. That might be the right choice of words, bud.”

Steve huffed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky trying to hide his smirk.

“I wanted to hit him. That’s not… me.”

“Good. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here, Steve.”

Steve nodded. “I owe you another apology for walking in on you when you were in the shower.” He looked at Bucky without completely facing him. “It’s nice to talk to you again when you’re fully clothed.”

“Awwww,” Bucky crooned, and this time his palm fluttered over his chest. A smile pulled at Steve’s lips. “You really know how to charm a fella.”

“Actually, I don’t. I’m not good at this. But if you haven’t guessed by now, I like you.”

“No. No, you’re not too bad at this at all.” 

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re still mad at me for the dick pic. Because, Steve,” Bucky confessed, “I’m _so_ sorry. I was drunk, and Brock and I had been broken up, and it had been one great, big, raging dumpster fire. He was such a prick. And Nat told me that she saw him while they were out. He’d already hooked up with someone else.”

“So. If I asked you out, and things went south, and we split up, does that mean you’d send me revenge dick pics?”

Bucky gave him a stony look, then tried to shove Steve off the bench. Steve honest-to-God _giggled_. “Hey, that would teach me a lesson.” 

Bucky facepalmed. “We are _not_ having this conversation right now. You’re a little shit.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I know that’s right. You’re not right in the head. And what’s all this ‘if we split up’ stuff? You haven’t even asked me out, yet.”

Steve licked his lips and braced himself. “Not. Yet.”

And Steve was blushing again, cute and ridiculous, and Bucky decided to let him off the hook.

“Then, what are you waiting for?”

*

Steve waited by the bar, even though there were no vacant stools. He watched the Knicks game as he began to warm up and refused the waitress’s offer to take his drink order.

“So, this is you on a date,” Bucky murmured by his shoulder. Bucky heard the crack of his smile before he turned to face him. “You clean up nice.”

“You look good in clothes.”

“Ha. Funny. You’re funny.” Bucky shook a finger at him. They were leaning in toward each other, buffeted by the crowd. 

“ _Rogers, party of two!_ ” 

“That’s us.” He automatically reached for Bucky, laying his hand on his lower back, to let him walk ahead of him, but Bucky gave him a funny look. “Uh. Sorry. After you.” He dropped his hand.

Bucky walked ahead of him slightly, then reached back and took Steve’s hand in a gentle grip, tugging him through the crowd toward their table. Warm tingles sped up Steve’s arms at his touch. They had a small table in the back corner, just shy of a potted ficus. “Drinks for you two tonight?”

“Water to start.”

“Two.” Bucky divested himself of his black peacoat but left on his skinny scarf, letting the ends dangle down the front of his snug, zippered cardigan. His hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, revealing the cords of muscle in his neck, the strong line of his jaw and sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah, no pressure. Not with you sitting here looking like a GQ cover,” Steve said, halfway to himself. 

Bucky laughed and kicked him lightly under the table. “Let me get out my phone and take you a picture. It’ll last longer.”

“Yeah. Well. I deleted the last one.”

“Oh.”

“I like the one I took of you better.”

“Blurry dick selfies in the dark don’t measure up to you taking a picture of me when we’re both drunk at Clint and Nat’s?”

“Sure don’t.” Steve smiled at him over the rim of his glass when the server brought their water.

Bucky was suddenly shy. “God. I really did that. You must think I’m a perv.”

“Are you?”

“No!” Bucky sounded affronted, but Steve was grinning at him. The server left them a couple of laminated menus, and they perused the specials, then dug into the basket of breadsticks, devouring them while they were still warm.

“So, Clint knew the whole time and didn’t say a damned thing,” Steve mused.

“Asshole,” Bucky agreed, chuckling. “I’m gonna get him back. Just watch. I’ll give him a lap dance on his birthday.”

“That doesn’t sound like revenge.”

“I embarrassed the crap out of him at Peggy’s birthday party!” Bucky bragged.

“You were there?”

“You had to have just left,” Bucky reminded him.

Steve dragged a stub of breadstick through the small bowl of marinara. “I’m just sorry I missed out.”

This time, Bucky flushed, staring down at the table. “Well, maybe you _should_ be.” Then he saw Steve’s hand where it rested on the table. Bucky reached for it, and his fingers were still cool from the wind outside. His thumb barely grazed the edge of Steve’s bandaged knuckles. 

_Bucky was touching him._ Steve’s mouth went dry.

“Please tell me you didn’t go back and hit him,” Bucky asked softly.

“I didn’t. I just showed a wall who was boss. Wasn’t one of my finer moments.” Bucky gave him a dubious look. “Promise. Scout’s honor.”

That prompted a smile and a gentle caress of his knuckles. “Clint was right. You _are_ a Boy Scout.”

Steve bit his lip, making Bucky’s teeth jealous. _God, he was so hot._ The blue flannel buttondown over a light gray tee and skinny jeans made him look wholesome until you saw that face, and those sexy blue eyes. “That a problem?”

“Not if you kept the uniform?”

*

They stole tidbits off each other’s plates, agreeing that Bucky’s pesto fettucine with shrimp was slightly better than Steve’s clam linguine. They eschewed the wine list but they let their server talk them into the dessert, a beautiful dark chocolate conch filled with mascarpone custard. Chocolate was one of Bucky’s weaknesses, falling just behind blonds in tight jeans that blushed easily and laughed with a baritone that licked over Bucky’s nerve endings, making pleasure curl inside him. Steve was having a hard time controlling his wandering thoughts while watching Bucky eat, sucking the custard off the spoon, sucking a tidbit of chocolate off his rosy, tempting mouth.

They lingered there, once the plates were scraped clean, and Steve’s hand found its way back into Bucky’s, fingers laced together. “We should head back soon,” Bucky suggested. His voice was a little hoarse from talking and laughing, and he was sleepy and content from the food. “It’s going to be freezing out.”

“We’ll walk fast.” Lucio’s wasn’t that far from the dorms, so Steve could see Bucky home first. He helped Bucky back into his peacoat and got up to settle the bill; Bucky lingered behind to leave the tip. True to his word, Steve and Bucky strode quickly uptown, back over the campus lawns and the small footbridge over the creek. They short-cutted through the rose gardens that were devoid of all but the most stubborn, half-closed blossoms. They huddled closely as they walked this time, an attempt at warmth during the brisk night. They made it back to the residence hall, where Bucky checked in with Reed.

“He’s coming up for a minute,” Bucky told him.

“Sign in, anyway. For posterity. Humor me,” Reed suggested. Steve and Bucky exchanged a furtive look, questions in their eyes. But Bucky led Steve upstairs.

“First dates usually end at the front door.”

“That wasn’t technically the front door,” Bucky corrected him.

“Oh.” But Steve’s stomach was knotting again with nerves, and Bucky smelled good and his cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, and his eyes were luminous and expectant. They lingered at the door, and Bucky began unknotting his scarf.

“This is where I tell you that I had a great time on our date and thank you for walking me home.”

“This is where I ask if you want to do it again sometime.”

“I already have your number.”

“Ditto.” Steve leaned against the doorframe, trying and failing not to stare at Bucky’s mouth.

“Promise to call me.”

“I’ll call you.”

Bucky licked his lips, and Steve’s restraint was hanging by a thin thread. “Tell me I have something on my mouth.”

“What?”

“Tell me.”

“You have something on your mouth.” And it dawned on him where his date was going with this.

“What do I have on my mouth, Steve?”

Steve reached up to comb his fingers through Bucky’s hair, cupping his nape just he said “Mine.” The kiss was was tentative, teasing, and they both tasted like remnants of chocolate and basil. Just as it began to deepen, hands curling in jackets and gripping waists, the door flew open, and Peter made his presence known.

“Oh, God! Gross! Go get a room, you two!” He then amended that. “Not THIS room!”

“Someone’s a Buzz McKilljoy,” Bucky accused.

“I’m a gentleman,” Steve assured Bucky, who only had eyes for him.

“Don’t fight for my honor this time.”

“Awwwww.” Steve feigned disappointment, but he leaned in and stole another peck. “G’night.”

“G’night.”

“Good _night_! Please spare us, you two!” Peter crowed, loudly enough for the RA to make throat-cutting motions from down the hall.

*

 

Game night continued to be a thing. Bucky and Steve continued to hog Nat and Clint’s couch. Once in a while, the texts would still fly, furtive and naughty, completely inappropriate and teasing. Everyone was in on it, greeting it with eye rolls and insisting “will you two idiots just take your turns already???” They always sat too close and laughed like loons, the least little thing setting them off whenever they were together. It was _sickening_.

Bucky couldn’t remember ever being so happy.

They spent a lot of time at Steve’s, and Bucky would take a turn cooking, experimenting in the kitchen with Sam. They were both night owls, even though Steve was usually up late wrapping up a painting or drawing series. Peter and Mary Jane had a habit of monopolizing the dorm room, but Bucky didn’t mind. He could count on hand how many times he spent the night at the hall and still have several fingers left.

Bucky introduced Steve to the little Mexican ice cream shop that made fresh paletas and aguas frescas; Steve was hooked on the horchata and the rompope popsicles, never quite developing Bucky’s taste for the tamarindo or jamaica. They still brought a bagful of them over for Nat and Clint’s Christmas party, even though no one else was quick to take one. They played Monopoly and Scrabble, accusing Scott of cheating and looking up words on his phone before playing his tiles. So much cheating. So much rage. So much _beer_. Steve never felt more at home.

Sam and Sharon started dating later that spring, and he began to make himself scarce. Steve and Bucky stayed up watching _Conan_ in the dark once Steve finished an ink pointilism sketch. They ate a bowl of popcorn down to its last salty fragments, sometimes just watching each other laugh, with the blue glow of the screen flickering over their faces.

“Hey, Buck.”

“Yeah, babe?”

“What made you get that tattoo, again?”

“Haven’t we talked about my questionable life choices before?”

“We talked about how I’m hopefully not one of them.”

“Dummy.” Bucky turned Steve to face him, fingers insistent on his chin, and he kissed him searchingly, no longer caring about finishing their show. Steve groaned with want, and his hands molded to Bucky’s body through the thin layer of his pajamas, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt when Bucky straddled his lap. 

“Your skin’s cold.”

“Warm me up, then.”

“Don’t wanna undress you and give you a chill. Come to bed.” There were blankets and pillows that now smelled like Bucky. Bucky’s toiletries shared space with Steve’s on the bathroom counter. He kept a pair of pajamas in Steve’s drawer. Steve normally appreciated how cute Bucky looked in them, but they would like nicer wadded up on the floor. When they staggered into his room, Bucky was already tenting the front of the flannel bottoms. He eased his way backward, up toward the headboard, eyes dark with passion.

“Tell me more about those questionable life choices, Buck.”

“I could tell you. Or I could show you,” he husked. Steve loomed over him, then crawled up his body and devoured his waiting mouth. Bucky reached for his waistband, but Steve beat his reach, tugging on the drawstrings. He pulled them down, and Bucky’s throbbing flesh bobbed free, practically waving at Steve. 

“What Rhymes with Bucky,” Steve recited dutifully.

Bucky grinned. “Tell me.”

His head tipped back into the pillows and his eyes shuttered in pleasure as Steve _showed_ him, instead.

 

FIN.


End file.
